


War, A Young Country, and a Piece of Cloth

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (gratuitous), Chess Metaphors, Child Abuse, Disjointed, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Psychological Trauma, Time Skips, Violence, World War II, so technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 15:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16121699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: WWII is about to begin. In the midst an overwhelming blizzard, Russia, Lithuania and Latvia find the spirit of a new country forming, unconscious in the snow. However, she has no idea who she is. She must decide who to trust, but with tensions high between nations and her identity elusive, the answer is far from clear.





	War, A Young Country, and a Piece of Cloth

**Author's Note:**

> This story is purposefully written to feel disjointed and with odd flow, almost like a non-fiction historical text which distances you from the happenings. A review on Fanfiction.net pointed this out and I'd just like to note that I'm fully aware of it and it was quite intentional.

* * *

**Chapter 1: A Patch of Brown**

* * *

**THE TIME WAS WORLD WAR II**

**(LATE 1940)**

All is a sea of endless white. Snow on the ground, snow in the sky, snow falling in the air. So bright, so _white_ it's blinding to look at.

But the land is not so desolate and empty. There is more to it, if one cares to look. But it is a dangerous place, as one young girl has found.

The young girl, no more than twelve, lies unconscious in the snow. Her chin-length brown hair is the colour of dark chocolate, the right side of her fringe held back with a yellow clip. Her eyes are closed, the colour a mystery, and her skin is deathly pale. Her breathing is shallow, uneven, her lips blue. To say the least, she is shivering.

All she has on is a sleeveless white turtleneck, tight grey pants, and light blue denim shoes. Her fingers are stiff and blue, but in her hand she is clutching something so tightly even in unconsciousness that her hand is shaking.

She is not the only one out in the blizzard.

Three figures, one extremely tall, one very short, and the other somewhere in the middle, trudge slowly through the blizzard. The tall one has a long, heavy tan coat, green pants, black gloves and a long light pink scarf. His hair is pale ashen blond, and his eyes are a distinctive violet that jump out from the sea of white, the snow the same colour as his skin. The smaller of the two following him has curly blond hair and dark blue eyes, and a maroon military uniform with brown epaulettes, collecting small piles of snow that are quickly blown of by the wind. Finally, the third, a plain-faced young man with shoulder-length brown hair and green eyes, and a green military uniform with tall brown boots covered in snowy flecks.

These three are no ordinary people. These three are countries. And they are on the brink of war.

The smallest one mumbles to the middle sized one in a heavily accented voice. "I-I _hate_ v-visiting B-Belarus in the m-middle of w-winter."

"Shut up, Latvia," the middle-sized one hisses. His voice is also heavily accented. "What do you think is worse; walking through this blizzard or an angry Belarus?"

Latvia never gets a chance to answer. The tallest one, without looking back, speaks in a similarly thick accent. "Latvia, Lithuania, stop complaining." His voice is disturbingly light for one with such a menacing air.

Latvia and Lithuania immediately fall silent. After a few more moments walking, the countries all freeze, each laying eyes on a small patch of brown.

"Wh-what is it?" Latvia stutters.

Lithuania finally notices the brown hair. "It's... a girl." His voice is shocked, his eyes wide. Without a moment's thought, he runs over to her.

The tallest figure comes closer. "If she is here, then she must be a new country," he says, smiling.

Latvia and Lithuania both shudder at his tone. Carefully, Latvia kneels down and pokes the girl's arm. "Sh-she's ice cold!"

Lithuania studies her face, his own thoughtful. "I could swear I've seen her before..."

Latvia glances at the other Baltic. "W-we need to help her!"

Lithuania looks up to the tall country. The tall country gives a nonchalant nod.

Latvia heads around to the other side of the girl and leans down, now in the shadow of the tallest figure. Trembling from fear rather than cold, he clumsily begins to lift her from the snow. His trembling fingers slip and she falls to the ground, a choking gasp escaping from her blue lips.

"Latvia!" The tallest figure smiles at him, unnervingly. "It would probably be in your best interests _not_ to hurt the new country."

"S-sorry, Mr Russia," Latvia gulps.

Russia kneels down, and, very slowly, takes off his scarf. Lithuania and Latvia glance at each other, confused. Lithuania turned his gaze to Russia's neck; it was tightly bandaged and the skin was so white it must have never seen the sun.

Gently, Russia lifts the new country's back up and wraps the scarf around her.

Lithuania and Latvia stare at each other in pure astonishment, completely confused by Russia's uncalled-for display of kindness.

Suddenly, the young country coughs hard, jerking her body forward in the big country's arms. She shivers, opening her eyes.

Lithuania, Latvia and Russia all stare at the new country's eyes. They are brown, a deep, rich chocolate brown sparkling with something deep and meaningful, something that as Soviet countries the others find alien, almost disturbing, yet beautiful. They are an odd almond shape, somewhere between Asian and European.

They also hold a weariness. There is sickness in this country's body. The pupils are extremely dilated, despite the blinding light. The rich brown is quickly almost swamped by the pitch-black pupils.

The new country can only see a blur. As it clears, she sees Russia's face. Concerned violet eyes, that show warmth and fill her with it, despite the overwhelming cold. She doesn't know that the warmth inside is false and fake.

Lithuania and Latvia both peer over her, also concerned. Slowly, the new country focuses on each face, taking in the features, soaking them in.

Slowly, she opens her mouth, but before she can say anything she explodes in a paroxysm of hacks and coughs. Lithuania and Latvia jerk back, but Russia is unfazed and unworried.

She draws in wheezy, heaving breaths, eyes wide. When she has finally gets enough air to breath through her uneven and shallow breaths, she once again opens her mouth.

"Where-" she coughs. "Where am I?"

Her voice is small, almost a rasping whisper, and slightly slurred, accent unknown. But it carries something great within it. She is, without a doubt, a new country.

"You are with me," Russia responds quietly. "And I am Russia."

He looks back at her, eyes betraying worry, but still kind and warm. Latvia and Lithuania do not speak, still confused by Russia's almost instant change of demeanour.

"You must be a new country. Who are you?" Russia asks, his accent strong and prominent.

"I-" the new country stops, her brow furrowing. She coughs again, her body jerking in Russia's strong arms. "I don't know," she lisps with the same unnatural slur. "I can't re-remember."

Lithuania furrows his brow, evidently confused. "That's odd... I don't think there was ever a time I didn't know I was Lithuania. I always new who I was, even when I was new."

"B-besides," Latvia adds. "Y-your t-too old to b-be a completely n-new c-country."

"Why can't I remember?" She says, her eyes wide.

"I know," Lithuania says. "It's called amnesia."

The new country is wide eyed and confused, unsure. Lithuania elaborates.

"The person - the amnesiac, they're called - can't remember anything about personal life. Only basic things, common sense, usually language. There are some that don't, but you don't seem to be one."

The new country's eyelids flutter. A snowflake lands on her cheek, and the countries are finally struck by how her skin is somewhat olive, as if that was the shade it was supposed to be.

Lithuania is worried, noting the new country's blue lips. "It's not wise to leave her out here, especially in such a state," he observes. He takes her cold, blue-fingered hand in his own gloved one.

The new country takes one more hallowing breath, then closes her eyes and goes limp. Her chest rises and falls in uneven breaths, shallow and wheezing.

Slowly, Russia stands, still studying the new country in his arms, his expression unreadable. "Come," he says to the two. "Let's get her inside. Hurry up, Latvia!"

With a bit of slipping and sliding, Latvia manages to stand. The three countries trudge on through the snow, now with a young fourth.

None of the countries notice as the new country's dangling right hand loosens, and out falls a small piece of yellow cloth.

* * *

**Chapter 2: No Longer Me**

* * *

"Her pulse is weak and irregular," Estonia says, adjusting his glasses carefully. His voice is thick with the same accent as the others. He studies the new country's face, taking in her blue lips. "She's quite ill."

The new country is lying on a couch, covered in several layers of warm blankets. Russia's scarf is still wrapped around her. Lithuania has turned the heater on high. The new country is awake, eyes open, but barely.

Estonia notices the dilated pupils. He rubs his forehead, trying to think, but recent events have tired him.

Estonia is simple looking, with square glasses and a narrow face. He has dark blond hair and green eyes, and a deep green military suit.

"Are you still cold?" Estonia asks.

"Y-yes, I-I am," she says. Unknown accent aside, Estonia notices the slur in her voice.

"She's hypothermic," Estonia says, turning to the other countries, all anxiously watching, except for Russia, who studies the new country with an unreadable expression.

"Latvia, make some hot tea for the new country," Russia says.

"C-could you m-make it with mint?" The new country says, her teeth chattering.

"I don't think we have any," Latvia says, glancing at Lithuania.

"I h-have some." The new country reaches a shivering hand into her pocket and pulls out a handful of slightly frost-encrusted scrunched-up mint leaves.

Latvia glances at Russia. Russia nods, and Latvia takes the mint leaves and runs to the kitchen.

The new country's arm drops, and her eyes flutter closed; the only sign of life from her is the uneven rise and fall of her chest.

Estonia turns to Russia. "She's a new country, isn't she."

Russia walks closer. "Yes."

Estonia glances at the bandages around Russia's neck, then turns back to Lithuania.

"Who is she?"

Lithuania shrugs. "No idea."

"Hasn't she told you?" Estonia asked.

Lithuania shook his head. "It's not that. She can't," he says.

"She has amnesia," Russia says, studying the new country.

Estonia nods. "So she can't remember..." He glances at her face. "Poor thing, not knowing who she is."

"Yes." Lithuania sighs. "Which means getting her to a country that _does_ know is going to be tricky."

"Perhaps Germany knows her," Estonia says. "Her accent is slightly similar to his."

Lithuania shakes his head. "You can't be sure. Her accent is completely unidentifiable."

Latvia finally walks back in, tea cup and saucer in hand, face flustered. He's about to set it down on the table when a pounding boom sounds on the door.

Latvia jumps, panicking, dropping the tea mug. It smashes on the floor with a clink and a crack.

Lithuania, Estonia and Russia all swivell around to face the door.

"It must be Mr Russia's boss!" Lithuania almost whispers.

"If he sees the new country he might hurt her," Estonia says fearfully. "Or take advantage of her..."

"Or get very angry..." Lithuania says, biting his lip. Russia's boss is extremely unpredictable.

Russia turns to Latvia. "Please clean that up, Latvia," he says, perfectly nicely. "Or I might have to hurt you."

Latvia gulps, grabs a tea towel and drops to the floor.

Russia turns to Estonia and Lithuania. "Hide the new country. Now!"

* * *

**Chapter 3: Falling Skies**

* * *

Russia slowly opens the door. "Come in, sir."

Russia's boss stomps in, expression cold and hard. He strides to the living room of the house as though he owns it; in a way, he does. Latvia, still kneeling on the floor picking up pieces of broken porcelain, freezes in terror when the two terrifying personas walk into the room.

Russia's boss sits down at the table, motioning for the large country to sit down as well. He points to the wet, still steaming mess on the floor.

"What is that?" Russia's boss says accusingly, turning to Russia.

Russia, never at loss for words, answers quickly. "Belarus. She came over earlier." He sits down.

Latvia begins scrubbing the floor with his tea towel twice as fast. The mere mention of the frankly terrifying country that he had to deal with mere minutes ago is terror-inducing. He bites his tongue to make sure he doesn't open his mouth and say something stupid.

Russia's boss glares at the tall, innocent-faced country. It's obvious from the shorter man's sceptical look that he doesn't believe him.

After one last studying look, Russia's boss evidently decides to leave the matter. "I came to tell you that you have a meeting with Germany in one week to further discuss the nature of the treaty."

He stands abruptly, turning and heading for the door. Latvia sighs in relief, slowing down his frantic pace.

"But I was wondering..."

Russia's boss turns back around. Latvia squeaks and cuts his hand on a piece of the porcelain.

"Where has your scarf gotten too?" Russia's boss says sceptically, evidently trying to catch the country in a lie.

Russia and Latvia freeze. Russia's hand flies to his throat, the white bandages clear and plain for all to see.

And for the first and last time in his life, Russia falters.

"Tea spilt on it!"

Russia and his boss turn to see a trembling and terrified Latvia.

Realising the two's glares were on him, Latvia gulps and begins shaking in earnest.

"L-L-L-Lithuania a-a-and E-E-Estonia are c-cleaning it up n-n-now."

He bends back down and begins to collect the porcelain shards at a frantic pace, feeling the glares burning into him.

Russia's boss scowls, but turns away.

"Remember! One week! Germany!"

Russia's boss strides out.

Latvia collapses in a heap from relief, blood still trickling to the floor from the cut on his hand.

Russia stands, frozen, staring at the door. Abruptly he turns and stries toward the corridor, without so much as a glance at Latvia.

He barges into the guest room, slamming the door open and petrifying Lithuania and Estonia, the latter of which almost screamed.

The young new country is bundled up in the only bed, layers and layers of blankets covering her.

"Estonia. Lithuania," Russia's says genially. "My boss came. I have a meeting with Germany in two weeks time. Please prepare for it."

His eyes flicker to the new country, studying her sleeping face.

"I shall take her with me. Maybe they know each other and seeing him will jog her memory."

Russia's almost kind expression turns into one so frightening the two Baltics scramble away and press into the wall.

"Do all you can to make her better," he threatens, his voice soft and menacing. " _Or else._ "

His subordinates are, for a moment, astounded by the terrible country's sudden compassion.

Then he ruins it.

"A new country shall be easy to control and manipulate."

He turns and walks out, slamming the door behind him.

The two Baltics slowly calm down. Lithuania stands and pulls out two chairs from best de the door, sitting heavily on one with a sigh. Estonia crumples into the other.

They sit in silence for a minute, watching the new country's chest rise and fall with slowly steadying breaths.

"He... he said those words oddly," Estonia wonders allowed, frowning. Lithuania glanced at him.

"Almost..." Estonia trails off. "Halfheartedly."

Lithuania, who would usually be surprised by a statement like that, simply nods.

"She's going to have a lot on her mind soon enough," he sighs. "All these superpowers wanting to control her."

"I hope for her sake she doesn't join with Russia," Estonia agrees, shuddering.

Lithuania's brow furrows, his expression thoughtful.

"I'm surprised how kind he was to her," he says. "Maybe he does know her, or she's related. She might be Slav."

Estonia looks at her, taking in her brown hair and remembering her all-encompassing brown eyes.

"She doesn't look like one of the family," he says, laughing bitterly.

The two Baltics go silent.

Reminiscing.

Remembering.

The days before this 'family'. The days before the Soviet Union. Before the man with big ideas, Karl Marx, had introduced Communism. Before Russia had controlled them, when they had been masters of themselves.

As each Baltic thinks of their lives before, the new country shifts in her bed. But her two watchers don't notice.

The country dreams. Dreams about the night sky, the shining moon so bright it hurt to look at it, stars twinkling all around it in a milky swirl.

Things were falling from the sky, everywhere, all around. The stars seemed to almost _go out,_ one by one, soon the only light left a glowing moon. She reaches out and takes one in her hand, but just as she's about to see what it is, it disappears.

Pieces and pieces of yellow cloth.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Inner Fights**

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING

* * *

Lithuania and Estonia are both sprawled out asleep on the floor besides the bed of the new country. She looks much better than before, her lips no longer blue and her shivering lessened. However, she is still starkly pale and her skin cold to touch.

The room is dark, the blinds drawn tight, all though you could tell it was morning by the thin misty haze of light in the room.

The door suddenly swings open wildly, banging against the wall. Lithuania and Estonia spring up, startled from their sleep.

"How is the little country?" Russia asks, walking into the room, a serene smile plastered on his face.

"B-b-better," Estonia says with a yawn, both shivering and stretching his arms at the same time. Lithuania tiredly rubs his eyes, blinking a few times.

Latvia sneaks through the door and runs over beside Lithuania.

Russia sits on the chair by the small table, gazing intently at the new country, somehow still sound asleep despite all the noise. The huge country rubs his neck subconsciously, once again the Baltics' eyes were drawn to the impossibly white skin and bandages.

"She has to be ready to come to Germany by the end of the week," Russia says, still looking at the new country.

"H-how are we s-supposed to get her there w-without your b-boss n-noticing her?" Lithuania asks timidly.

Russia turns his gaze away from the new country instead to Lithuania.

The terrified Baltic goes stock still and the others hold their breath.

"Her hair is similar in length and enough in colour to Lithuania's to pose as him for a short while," Russia finally says.

Lithuania crumples in relief, while the other two release the breaths they'd been holding.

"B-but how?" Latvia stutters, surprised. "Sh-she doesn't know the first thing about acting Lithuania! And her hair is far to dark."

"Latvia!" the other Baltics cry in tandem. Lithuania slams his palm into his face, shaking his head.

Russia puts his hand on Latvia's head, his smile still on his face.

"Really, Latvia," Russia smiles. "When will you learn to hold your tongue..."

Latvia gulps. Despite Estonia's frantic and rapid signs to shut up, Latvia opens his mouth to reply.

"Who are you? What's going on? Where am I?" A voice intones in her trademark accented Russian.

Russia and the Baltics turn to stare.

The new country is wide awake.

She stares them half in awe half in fear. Her deep brown eyes betray her emotions, despite her best efforts. Her thin, pale, trembling fingers pull Russia's scarf tightly around herself.

Russia tenses, gaze studying the new country's eyes. His eyes travel to the scarf, and he flinches.

"Lithuania. Estonia. Tell the new country what is happening," he says in a frightening tone. The Baltics all cower, shaking in fear. "Latvia, come with me. We have a meeting to prepare for."

With one last glance at the scarf, and then the new country's confused but unafraid eyes, he leaves with Latvia scurrying after at his heels.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Homesick Without a Home**

* * *

**ONE WEEK LATER**

Standing in the snow-covered airport, the terrifying Russia and the quiet Estonia by her side, the young country feels her entire body shaking from nerves and fear. The young country has known nothing other than nervousness and fear for all she can remember, but this crosses a line.

The young country looks off into the dark grey sky. How could this cold, snow covered place be her home? Yet homesickness tugs at her already. This is the only place she has ever known.

Memories of the only week in her life descend on her.

The young country, whom the Soviets call 'Myata' because of her addiction to mint tea, still has not remembered a single thing about who she is. Not even the human she used to be. She has spent the time recovering, talking with the Baltics, and generally trying to loose her nervousness, which proved impossible.

Myata has grown closest to Lithuania. It's a good thing, with her now being forced to emulate him. The two countries have talked quite often, and Lithuania has grown fond of her. Myata is full of questions about everything; about countries, the difference with them and humans, who the different countries were, who she was. Lithuania has answered as much as he could, but Myata can tell he always feels guilty when he can't tell her who _she_ is.

It had been a nerve-racking drive in the army van to the airport. Sitting across from Russia and his boss (the two most terrifying people in the world, Myata iss sure) wasn't exactly the most calming experience, especially when she risked discovery at any moment. Neither Russia nor Estonia could protect her, and if Russia's boss found out she was a country... Estonia hadn't told her _what_ would happen, but Myata is sure it wasn't good.

Throughout the ride, she'd tried to keep her thoughts off the others in the van, but it was incredibly difficult. Being the only other people she'd known, she had no one else to think of but the other two Baltics. That made her feel an odd sense of homesickness. Looking outside into the freezing snow would bring back memories of that never-ending coldness, sure she should be dead, but still, somehow, impossibly, alive. Lithuania had explained this was due to what was generally called 'country immunity.' A country's human body could not die from any physical wound unless the actual country had dissolved. When it did, the country would begin to fade until no one had memories of them, until there was no hope for the country to return, at which point they would simply vanish.

It sounded like a terrible fate to Myata, and she couldn't stop her thoughts from drifting there. What if her country _was_ so weak she could die? The hypothermia, she told herself. It had not killed her, even though if she had been a regular human, it would have.

Such worrying thoughts made Myata tremble like a leaf the entire ride, drawing the attention of Russia's boss. He had studied her throughout the ride. When the three countries had gotten out of the van, he'd remarked that Lithuania looked odd, although he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Myata had been on the verge of fainting. There were so many plainly obvious differences. She was short (shorter than Latvia), had much darker hair, and was obviously feminine. It would only take one glance to notice.

But the terrifying man had simply shrugged and gotten back inside, slamming the door after him. He must've been tired. Or just really, really unobservant.

Myata looks to Estonia, but he doesn't seem afraid, except for the slight tremble that gives him away. She would have to ask him to teach her how to do that; to hide her fear.

"So," Russia says. "You are sure you can speak fluent German?"

Myata nods quickly. "Y-yes."

The Baltics had discovered that in conversation, without warning, Myata would suddenly change the language of her speech without even noticing. The languages she spoke were mostly European, but nothing that could give them a clue of who she was. German, Russian, Polish, once a sentence of Hungarian, even a bit of proficiency in the languages of all three Baltics. Some speech of other languages. She has also shown a fluency of English, but that comes to every country naturally. English is this era's communal language.

Russia turns away from the two terrified nations to watch for their plane. Estonia clenches and unclenches his fists, his jaw tight. Myata looks up at him, amazed at how stoic he seems on the outside. But she knows the fear that riddles him on the inside; the fear of Russia.

The Baltics have kept Myata's contact with Russia at minimum. All three were completely terrified of him. Myata doesn't know exactly what it is that is so frightening, but she knows he is to be feared.

"What do we do when we get there?" Myata lisps. "We haven't really planned this out. We assumed I would get caught."

She speaks in English, as she rarely has sudden language changes when speaking that. Her odd accent comes through, still unidentifiable.

Estonia shifts in place. "Just... go with it, I guess. Russia had an agenda with Germany, they'll sort it out, and then he'll introduce you. Germany isn't nearly as scary as Russia, but apparently some terrible things have been happening there recently."

Myata stares wide-eyed at Estonia. "What terrible things?!"

Estonia clasps her hand in his own reassuringly. "It's nothing. All I know is that his boss is slightly insane... Like Mr Russia's."

Myata makes herself calm down, although she doesn't stop holding Estonia's hand. None of the Baltics know much about foreign affairs, being kept in the dark by Russia. Estonia knows more, going with Russia to several meetings, but his knowledge is still rather patchwork. Estonia can be telling her something incredibly exaggerated, or something that barely even scratches the surface.

A sudden blast of air and a loud noise distracts Myata. Myata looks up to see a green army jet bearing down on the three countries, preparing to land.

Russia turns back to them, his serene expression unreadable. "Our plane has arrived. Estonia, Myata, stop holding hands."

Russia boards the plane, barely sparing the other two a second glance.

Estonia let's go of Myata's hand immediately. Myata bites her cold lip, nervous. Estonia begins boarding the plane, Myata following close behind.

Just as she's about to enter the plane, Myata casts one last look out into the endless-seeming snow.

Her eyes are filled with a myriad of emotions, turbulent and troubled. Her eyes are filled with sorrow, homesickness, fear and turmoil.

But most of all, they are filled with determination.

* * *

**Chapter 6: I Am a Country**

* * *

Myata's respect for Estonia is growing with every passing minute.

According to Lithuania, Estonia is the one who normally accompanies Russia and handles all the foreign affairs. If this is what it is like every time, then Myata is certainly impressed that he hasn't yet died of boredom.

Myata allows herself to let her mind wander. She is beginning to doubt that Russia will even mention her to Germany. What will she say to Lithuania when she sees him again?

Suddenly, Myata's ears prick. Germany just said 'Lithuania.'

"I do not regret taking Poland. You are pleased with your side of the bargain?" Germany says, one eyebrow raised.

Russia's expression does not change. "Yes. It is nice to have control of all three Baltics once more."

_Once more? Since when? What is he talking about?_

Israel glances over at Estonia. He looks almost pained. _There's a lot about them I don't know._

Germany leans back in his chair. "Then the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact requires no further altering."

Russia doesn't respond.

Germany gestures to Myata and Estonia. "I see you brought two of the Baltics."

Russia nods. "Yes."

Germany narrows his eyes. "Might we continue this discussion outside?"

Myata bites her lip. _Translation: nothing good._

Russia nods again. "Of course."

The two sinister countries leave the room, Russia eyeing Myata and Estonia with a black look before he leaves.

Estonia sighs in relief as the door shuts and slumps against the wall, running a hand through his blond hair.

Myata turns on him, firing questions at rapid speed. "What was that? What is the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact? What does he mean, control of Lithuania once more?"

Estonia sighs again, but in exasperation. "I don't know all the fine details myself. The Molotov-Ribbentrop pact is a non-aggression pact signed by Germany and us, the Soviet Union."

Myata blinks. "Who's the Soviet Union? Is that another name for Russia?"

Estonia almost smiles. "Quite a fair few countries joined together, mostly across Northern Europe and a bit of Northern Asia. Russia is its head. Then there's Belarus, Ukraine, a few Asian countries like Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan. And as of August 1940, so are we three Baltic states; Latvia, Lithuania and I."

Myata stares at him. "Why?"

Estonia sighs. "The Soviet Union – well, Russia - was allowed to install military bases in us by coercing us into signing an agreement. After that, he got us pro-Soviet governments and bosses until we were made to apply to 'join' the Soviet Union. Russia, obviously, agreed, and here we are again."

Myata falls silent. After a moment, she looks up at him again. "So he had control over you three before?"

Estonia's eyes are sad. "We three have a history of being pushed around. Latvia and I were in the control of Sweden until he ceded us to Russia. In the 18th century, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth was partitioned Russia and two others. After that, Russia got control of Lithuania as well. After the First World War, we gained independence in 1920. But then, when this war started, we were forced into that agreement. I'm starting to wonder if we'll ever be rid of him."

Myata grasps his hand, eyes wide with sympathy. "I'm sure it's not _that_ bad. I mean, how bad could living under Russia's rule really be?"

Estonia's eyes darken and Myata is shocked to see a tear spill over. "You have no idea."

Confusion invades Myata. "But-"

Estonia turns to look at her. His face is wet with tears. He clasps her shoulders with both of his hands.

"Russia is a monster, Myata. You have no idea how lucky you are to not be a solid country right now. Right now, you are simply the spirit of a country, the hope of a group of people. The only interaction you will ever have with him now, in this state, will never be recognised politically or historically by the rest of the world. If your country is even slightly out of his reach, when you become officially recognised, do not, and I repeat, do _not_ join the Soviet Union. Ever. It will be the worst decision you will ever make. Any control he has over you right now will be over your human form. It will give you choice. You can still choose to leave him. If you have to join a country, if you are forced, choose anyone but Russia. _Anyone._ "

Myata opens her mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. Estonia straightens, wiping the tear tracks from his face. He acts as if he hasn't just given her a dire warning.

Myata doesn't know what she is feeling right now. Something between frightened, confused and worried. Whatever it is, it's baffling.

What has Russia done that is so terrible Estonia has to warn her away?

_Coercing us into signing an agreement..._

Myata shudders. Whatever that coercion was, it certainly didn't sound pleasant.

For the first time, there is an absence of the homesickness.

The sound of the door opening makes both Estonia and Myata jump. Myata's heart beats rapidly as Russia calmly walks into the room. Myata has the usual sense of being dwarfed by his terrifying presence, but this time it's amplified by Estonia's words. Russia must notice the abject terror radiating from her, because he gives her a threatening, ominous glare as he sits down. _Stop showing your fear._

Myata is glad they are in the presence of Germany; Russia won't risk threatening the negotiations to silence her. If anything bad does happen, however, Estonia can't lift a finger, as he's in complete control of Russia.

But that doesn't mean Russia won't do anything afterwards.

Germany is staring thoughtfully at Myata. Myata shifts in place, trying to smooth over her expression, staring straight ahead.

_Please don't let him notice, please don't let him notice, let him be as unobservant as Russia's boss, oh, please Elohim..._

Confusion flits through Myata, her fear of Russia only just stopping her expression from changing. What was Elohim? Was that word from another language? She'd have to ask Estonia later.

Germany has not yet sat down. Suddenly, he points an accusatory finger at Myata. "That's not Lithuania."

Fear spikes Myata and she gasps, taking a step back. Estonia tenses, hand grabbing Myata's arm. Germany's face is pensive, but Myata can see through it. Anger, barely concealed beneath the surface, at Russia's trickery.

"Who is this human? What is... _she_ doing here?"

A string of Russian swear words go through Myata's mind. She shrinks back, hoping to disappear behind Estonia's shadow.

"She is not a human," Russia says. "She is a new country."

Germany glares at Russia. "Good try, but I would have known if a new Soviet territory popped up somewhere. Now; _who is she?"_

Myata's bottom lip is trembling. Russia had warned them of this. But, they hadn't planned for this.

Well, nothing better than a little bit of improvisation, right?

"Ich bin ein Land."

Germany freezes. "Did you just say 'I am a country' in German?"

"Ja."

Germany glares at her. "A German-speaking little Soviet girl. Where'd you dig her up?"

Anger suddenly courses through Myata and she takes a step forward. "Ich bin nicht sowjet! Kannst du nicht sagen? Ich bin mein eigenes Land!"

_I am not Soviet! Can't you tell? I am my own country!_

Germany stares at Myata. Myata's fiery gaze does not withdraw. Estonia feels an odd sense of pride at her sudden strength.

Germany turns away from Russia, addressing Myata. He speaks in rapid German. A sudden fear shoots through Estonia. He is testing her; will Myata's newly unveiled knowledge of German be enough?

Myata answers flawlessly, confidence not wavering once. The word for Russian, 'Russisch,' pops up. He's asking her what she could speak.

Germany continues glaring at her. Most countries would have shrivelled under that strong gaze, but Myata's spirit wins out.

Germany snaps another question. Myata answers instantly, barely pausing to think about the answer. The word for sickness, 'Krankheit,' appears in her answer. Estonia clenches his fists, wishing he knows more German. He wants to help the little country.

Germany continues quizzing her. Myata answers with complete and total confidence. But Estonia is close enough to feel her slight tremble; no matter how well she hides it, she is afraid.

Estonia almost chuckles. How did she learn to hide it so quickly? The answer comes to him as he is thinking. The same way he does. The same way they all does. Through anger.

Germany finally stops, seemingly satisfied. Myata sighs in relief, almost all the fight draining out of her. Estonia puts an arm around her. Russia can glare all he wants.

Germany's eyes are narrow, analysing. "So. Found in the snow by Russia and his subordinates."

Estonia winces at the word _subordinates._

Germany's ice cold eyes give nothing away. "A country's spirit formed in a teenage body. Not yet recognised. Not a Soviet, yet found in Russia. As if... chased there, perhaps?"

Germany's eyes slide to Russia. The taller country doesn't react.

Myata doesn't waver. "I told you. I don't remember."

Germany gives a huff of derisive laughter, shaking his head. "Whoever your people are, they certainly are an opinionated bunch."

Myata lifts her chin. That's something to be proud of.

Germany sighs. "Whoever they are, they're certainly spread far and wide. If your people's history and ideals are old, that explains why you have such knowledge, but if the chance of your country becoming recognised have only surfaced now, that explains why you appear so young. Have you signed allegiance yet?"

A sudden sense of danger fills the room, overpowering and suffocating. Myata can feel Russia's gaze tearing into her. He wants her to claim allegiance to him.

"Not yet."

The entire room draws breath. In those two words, Myata knows just how much she is admitting. She is admitting that Russia doesn't have power over her.

The sense of danger doesn't fade. Myata looks around at the other three countries. So much more powerful than her. All of them, even Estonia, can crush her easily, Myata is sure.

"In any case," Russia says calmly. The danger seems to fade slightly as Germany's attention is drawn to him. "You obviously don't recognise her. As negotiations are over, we should return home-"

"Wait!"

All three countries stare at her. Myata clears her throat and gulps. "Er, uh... do you know a country called Poland?"

Germany stares at her. What a coincidence that the country Lithuania was traded for would be the country that the Lithuania-impersonator would ask after.

Russia glares at Myata, malice in his gaze. Estonia looks terrified. Any kindness that Russia had shown before was completely gone.

"Yes, I do know him," Germany says slowly. "He is currently under my control. Do you know him?"

Myata pauses. "I- I don't know," she admits. "I think I do, but I'm not sure."

"Well then," Russia says stiffly. "I guess I will just have to leave her here with you." _But I expect her back._

"Of course. I will make sure she gets to see Poland." Germany nods stiffly.

Russia sweeps toward the door. "Come, Estonia. We're leaving."

Estonia begins to follow, but stops to give Myata a hug. Before he releases her, Myata hears a whisper in her ear.

"I am proud of you. You won't regret this choice. And remember; never _ever_ come back to the Soviet Union."

Estonia stands, pats her shoulder, and hurries after Russia.

Germany gestures towards the door. "Should we see them off?"

Myata nods stiffly. She follows Germany out the door, and then through the corridor and to the outside. She is just in time to see Estonia boarding a military van.

Myata lifts her hand in goodbye, but doesn't wave. Although Myata hates herself for it, Myata feels relief at seeing the two countries driving away. She is free of Russia's terrifying presence.

"You are sad, yet relieved, ja?"

Myata jerks to stare at Germany. He is watching her thoughtfully. She will have to remember his ability to notice subtlties.

Myata nods, eyes sad. "Yes. They are all who I have known as long as I can remember. Leaving them is frightening, yet it is a relief to be away from Russia. The Baltics have warned me about him."

Germany almost smiles. "Your name. Myata. Does it mean anything?"

"It is mint in Russian. I have an addiction to mint tea." Myata doesn't look at Germany. She is busy watching the now empty cobblestone drive, uncertainty crowding her thoughts.

Germany awkwardly puts his hand on her shoulder. "Come. Let's go inside. It's late, and it's getting rather cold."

Myata gives a breath of laughter. "Nothing I can't handle. I was in Russia for a week, remember?"

Germany barely acknowledges her. He opens the door, ushering her inside. He shows her to a room, closing the door after her.

As he walks away, Germany speaks under his breath. "I remember. Ample time for him to force you into his allegiance. I am finding out who you really are, Myata, and taking you from that monster, make no mistake."

* * *

**Chapter 7: The One Who Murdered Me**

* * *

Myata sighs and looks out the window, sitting on a couch in the living room. Germany has gone somewhere for another 'important meeting.' Previously, Myata would have jumped at the chance to do something like explore the house, or find a new art piece to stare at. Something. But two weeks into her memory and almost one week into her stay, she has already run out of things to do.

She's discovered skill for playing the violin (even though she had no idea what she was doing when she was doing it), a penchant for bagels, a violent hatred of pork, a talent for guilt-inflicting (she's managed to get Germany to let her out _twice_ on that alone) and a close to insufferable nit-pickiness. None of those newfound traits have provided an insight to who she was.

Myata hasn't even had the chance to meet a different country. Apparently, there is another one staying here called Italy, but Germany has been quite pedantic about ensuring they never cross paths. He claims that Italy would 'upset' her.

Myata sits on the leather couch now, wondering about Russia and the Baltics. Was everything fine over there? Was everything going well? Was Lithuania all right? Had they forgotten about her?

A noise signals that Germany has opened the door, walking inside. Myata glances over. He looks completely bored out of his mind, and a headache is brewing. He sits beside Myata on the couch.

"That reminds me," Myata says. She rises and runs over to the kitchen. As he massages his temples, Germany envies her energy. He hears the clack of glassware on the coffee table. He looks up to see Myata, her expression neutral.

"Mint tea," Myata says quietly. "Always makes me feel better."

"Thank you, Myata." Germany lifts up the glass and drains it. Putting down the cup, he smiles. "I can understand your addiction."

Myata gives a small smile and takes the cup back to the kitchen. "Another boring meeting?" she calls.

"Yes, very boring," Germany sighs. "Why are you so interested in them? They're mind-numbingly droll, and you'll get far too much of them when you're an official country."

Myata comes back, shrugging. "I guess I want to be prepared." She cocks her head. "What other countries were there?"

Germany smiles. "Italy, the one I've been telling you about. And another called Japan. He's from the-"

"East," Myata nods, looking confused a moment later. Germany studies her face. "Another little memory?"

Myata nods her head. "All the time."

Myata could recall facts, dates, basic knowledge. Even that was patchwork. But anything personal, anything relating to family or friends or names or faces or who she was... gone.

"I have a question," Myata asks. Germany nods, Gesturing for her to ask.

"What's our relationship with... normal people? As in... how does it work?" Myata asks hesitantly. Embarrassment burns her cheeks.

Germany almost smiles. "No need to be embarrassed. Countries and normal people interact normally, but countries strictly, as a rule, don't develop relationships with normal becomes... complicated. Rulers of countries know, and soldiers know, and the people they tell know, but most people remain oblivious. It's a general rule that the majority of the world remain ignorant."

"Why?" Myata asks curiously.

Germany sighs. "Mostly because of our... situation, I guess you'd call it. We're basically immortal, you see. As long as we've got our people and our identity, we exist. Never ageing, never dying. Can you think of what'd happen? Scientists would go insane trying to figure out how we worked."

"What about our... immunity?" Myata asks quietly.

"Now that one's tricky," Germany says. "If we get shot at, let's say, and some civilian sees, they just see some soldier getting gunned down. There are non-lethal places to hit. It's easy enough to fake that you got hit there. Soldiers, of course, know."

Myata mutters something about confusion. Germany doesn't respond.

Myata's eyes spy something white on the mantel piece. She stands, walking over to it.

"What's this?" She points at it.

"It's a calendar," Germany says, rising as well. "You remember what it's for?"

"I think so." Myata flicks through it, and sees Germany has crossed out all the dates until today. Today, she notices, is the first of September 1940.

With a cry, Myata falls to her knees, a sudden splitting headache crashing through her skull. Her sights blurs, her balance fails, her nerves inform her numbly that she has fallen on her side, but the words ring in her head as clear as day.

_One year exactly! One year since they invaded us! One year since we feel to the Third Reich, one year since it all started! One year since our city fell! One year since they killed me!_

Myata screams. The scream only makes the voice louder, repeating the same thing over and over. She screams again, but the splitting pain and the all-encompassing voice won't leave.

_ONE YEAR SINCE-_

" _Germany!_ " Myata screams. " _Germany!_ "

"Myata?!"

The pain withdraws, fading as though it had never existed. Her sight clears. The voice disappears. Germany is standing over her, his face etched with worry.

"I... I'm fine," Myata says. Slowly, she sits up, one hand to her head. Her head doesn't feel any different. There isn't even an echo of pain. It's all gone.

"What was that?" Germany asks quietly. "What happened?"

Myata shakes her head, uncertain. "I-I d-don't know. I looked at the calendar and then this voice... started... _talking._ In my head. It said something about one year since 'it all started.' What was it talking about?"

It looks as though Germany's expression doesn't change. Most wouldn't notice. But Myata does. His forehead creases, his eyes narrow ever-so-slightly and darken.

"What is it? What's wrong? What happened on the first of September?" Myata asks. _I'll nag him about this until I get an answer!_

Germany seems to be shaken as if from a stupor. "Oh. It's... nothing. Nothing at all."

Myata's eyes narrow. "You're not a good liar. Tell me."

Germany sighs. Why is he hiding it from her? There's no good reason other than sheer over-protectiveness.

"On the first of September I invaded Poland," Germany starts.

Myata almost gasps, but manages to keep her expression neutral. _One year since they invaded us..._

_One year since Germany invaded Poland._

Myata _Polish_? That makes no sense. Poland already existed: how could she be a new country if she's _from_ an existing one?

"Wait... I'm Polish?" Myata says quietly. Germany stares at her.

"What?"

"I remembered... a bit," Myata says. "The voice said, 'One year since they invaded us.' You are they and us... is Poland."

Germany stops, staring at Myata. Suspicions suddenly cloud his thoughts. "What else did the voice say?"

"One year since we feel to the Third Reich, one year since it all started, one year since our city fell, and one year since they killed me," Myata recites. "What do you think it all means?"

Germany sighs. "The city is Warsaw. Poland's capital. I went with a small contingent to confront Poland and give him our terms. Poland didn't agree, and the city was stormed. Reinforcements came immediately. Some citizens were killed... perhaps you were among them."

Myata stares at Germany. Like two sides of a coin, her personality has two sides; the nit-picky, naggy and guilt inflicting cynical mask, or the meek, shy and uncertain little girl that she is. Like a coin, they flip, and her confidence drains.

"Oh."

Germany looks uncomfortable. Even as he watches, there was a sublet change in Myata's gaze. It's unnerving, the way her eyes change so slightly, so you can barely tell by sight, but you can feel it as she looks at you.

"Did you kill me?"

The question, but for it's words, is said so innocuously, so nonchalantly, that it can almost have been the sort of question that pops up in normal conversation. But the accusatory nature of the words prevails.

Why does she have to be so good at guilt-inflicting?!

"I... don't remember," Germany says uncomfortably. "I'm sorry. I could have been the one, but... I don't remember. I know how terrible that sounds, but..."

Germany trails off. There is no but, no excuse, and he knows it. No excuse for cold-blooded murder.

"You could have been in Russia because you ran away from Poland at the time of the battle," Germany says. "It could have been the hypothermia that killed-"

"No." Myata stands. "The voice was clear. I was killed by 'they.' You. The hypothermia developed afterwards."

Germany sighs. "I've been putting this off, because I haven't had the time nor patience to address it, but I think now might be a good time to go see Poland."

Myata doesn't look at Germany. "All right."

Germany internally winces, guilt piling up on him. He grabs Lithuania's coat from the coat hanger and hands it to Myata, reaching back for his own.

Myata slips it on silently, without a word. Germany can almost see the gears churning in her head at the new revelation.

Germany gestures Myata outside. The two walk towards a military van parked beside the house. As Germany opens the door, a large gust of wind almost blows Myata over like a leaf.

Germany grabs her wrist. Myata goes numb at his touch.

_He could have murdered me. He could have been the one who held the gun._

Myata pulls her hand out of his grip, climbing into the van at his gesture. Germany gets in to the driver's seat. As he starts the engine, he scans the sky, worry seeping in. "Looks like there's a blizzard coming our way."

Myata replies quietly. "We might as well try. We're countries. We'll be fine."

The van sputters to life. Myata remains silent. As Germany drives off into the cold evening, guilty thoughts run through his mind. He didn't tell her the whole truth. He does remember her. He's right, he's sure. It's the same girl.

_I remember you, and what you did, all too well. Like David to Goliath. You were the first to die._

He just hopes that his other suspicions are wrong.

* * *

**Chapter 8: One Last Lie**

* * *

Myata had fallen asleep on the way to Poland. She had no idea of how long it took, but she did dream.

She dreamt about a grey city. Smoke was rising from it and even though it wasn't destroyed, it held an aura of dread. Crowds and crowds of people were there, in the main square, clearing out of the middle to watch the confrontation. She felt like she was one of them, one of these endless grey wisps of people, watching, dreading.

On the right there was Germany, backed up by two tanks and lines of soldiers. Facing him to the left was only one man. He had straight, chin-length straw blond hair and green almond-shaped eyes. He wore a tattered green military uniform and a short cape covering his shoulders and sporting a bloody wound on his shoulder; blood had seeped through the cape on the right side.

Germany pointed at him. "Do you accept?!" He yells. His voice echoes around the grey city.

The man on the left looks to Germany, then casts his eyes down. "No."

Germany steps forward. "Feliks, you know Warsaw must fall."

The other man, Feliks, looks up to Germany. He opens his mouth to say something, but then Myata feels herself move.

Then everything turns to a haze of pain, screaming, and an all-encompassing red flag. On the red, a black mark, scoring into her vision, imprinting itself on her, choking, gasping, the red liquefies, turning into a sea of blood, she's drowning in a sea of blood and death and screams...

"Myata?"

Myata gasps, eyes flying open, sitting straight up. Germany is watching her. The van has stopped, and through the door, Myata can see snow.

Myata's dream fades completely as she realises. They have arrived in Poland.

Myata stands blearily, rubbing her eyes. Slowly, she makes her way out of the van.

Immediately, a memory sweeps her off her feet. That unending cold. The incredible, unimaginable cold.

"Are you all right?" Germany looks worried.

Myata nods, shaking off the memories like fallen leaves. "I'm fine."

The snow is morbidly beautiful in a way. Falling softly, brushing the trees and bushes with strokes of white, lacing the sky and clouds with a silver lining.

Myata looks back at the van. The ugly olive green contrasts greatly with the endless white beauty, and the tire tracks mar the white snow. Myata feels oddly uncomfortable, turning away.

After half a minute or so, Myata can see a soft light. A small brick cottage, looking quaint and very out-of-a-book.

"Poland's house?" Myata inquires.

Germany nods. The two stand in front of the wooden door. Myata feels an odd sense of deja vu.

Germany knocks on the door. Slowly the door opens. "What? I totally do not want to be disturbed!"

Poland has straight, chin-length straw blond hair and green almond-shaped eyes. He wears a tattered green military uniform and a short cape covering his shoulders. The appearance is jarring. For some reason, Myata knows that she has him before.

Poland's mouth freezes mid-word. His gaze travels from Germany, then goes to Myata. Myata gives a forced smile, unsure of what to do.

Poland gasp and jerks back inside, slamming the door with a bang.

Myata jumps back. "What was _that_ about?"

Germany doesn't answer, instead, he bangs on the door. "Poland!" He barks. "Open up!"

"No way!" Poland replies, voice muffled from inside. "Do you think I have, like, a death wish? Is this some trap, Germany? Because I am totally not falling for it!"

Myata turns to Germany. "What is he talking about?"

Germany sighs, a dark look on his face. He turns to Myata. "My suspicions have been confirmed."

"What...? What do you mean?" Myata back away, slightly confused. In the corner of her eye, she sees Poland peeking out the window past a curtain.

"Hey! Germany! Geeeermany!"

Myata and Germany turn to see a woman running up behind them. She has long brown hair that is somewhat wavy at the ends and green eyes. There are two orange flowers in her hair, and she is wearing a dark green military uniform with a matching beret. She finally stops in front of them, panting, hands on her knees.

"What is it, Hungary?"

"We found evidence of a new country found in Russia." The woman, Hungary, pants. "The reports say it's a girl. Most accounts say she looks about twelve. It's unconfirmed if she's Soviet or if her allegiance is to Russia, and we have no idea where she is geographically."

Myata stares at her. Is this woman - Hungary - a country too? She knows, and she isn't a country's boss, by the look of it.

Hungary's gaze slides to Myata. She grins and sticks out her hand. "Hello. My name's Hungary. Germany's a bit awkward and won't introduce you, so... what's your name?"

"Myata," Myata says, taking her hand.

Germany decides to speak. "She is the new country found in Russia."

Hungary's jaw drops. "Wait... are you serious?"

Germany glares at her. "Have I ever joked?"

Hungary stares at Myata. Her right hand goes to her waist, slowly, carefully. "Is she Soviet? Is she dangerous? Where is she? Is she Allied or Axis-"

"Stop!" Germany commands. "We have no idea. She's lost her memory."

Myata's cynical side kicks in. "I love how you talk about me as though I'm not here."

Poland's door opens a crack. "What's going on? What's this about a new country?"

Hungary, without warning, pulls out a shot gun. The quivering point is right in front of Myata's chest.

Poland gasps. Germany goes silent. Myata recoils, falling onto her side. Her left jacket sleeve, caught on thorns on the bushes, tears off.

"Just say the word and I'll shoot," Hungary says, a quaver in her voice.

"Stop!" Germany slams his hand into Hungary's wrist.

Hungary cries out, her hand spasming. Two shots fire before her hold on the gun breaks.

Myata screams. The two bullets land with a small thump in the snow. The sounds echo in Myata's head. Pure, mind-numbing terror crashes through her.

The sounds... the two shots. They echo. Something terrible happened, and those sounds were all she could hear. Even though she knows it's in her mind, Myata still feels petrified as she sees a red patch blossoming in the snow. Other patches blossom too, as though the blood is being poured on them from underneath. Red, drowning in a sea of red...

Hungary, with a cry, stumbles back as Germany elbows her and grabs the weapon in one clean motion. Myata stares as the bright, pure, untouched snow becomes stained with a pull of the reddest crimson. She is unable to move, staring fixated at the magnificent red.

_Drowning in the red flag, drowning in blood..._

Myata blinks, and the red disappears. She scrambles to her feet.

"She is not our enemy." Germany intones. Hungary, fallen in the snow, puts her hands up. Germany continues. "She is only the spirit of a country! She can't do anything yet. Besides, she has country immunity. Shooting her would have done nothing."

Hungary stands slowly. Myata stares, bewildered, wondering how the female country could have gone from so warm to pointing a gun at her heart.

"I'm sorry," Hungary says, genuinely ashamed. "I didn't know. I though you were allied with Russia, or something crazy like that."

Germany locks the safety onto the gun. "Let me see that."

Myata holds out her left arm. A bullet, grazing her arm, had scored away skin and had left a diagonal line of red.

"It's fine." Myata wishes she could roll down the long sleeve, but it remains on the thorns. "In _any_ event, there is a reason why I'm here. This has all taken quite a while. I came to ask Poland if he knew me."

Hungary glances at Germany. He nods, and Hungary suddenly slams side-on into the door. Poland and Myata yelp in sync as the door swings wide open, leaving a hole in the door post were the bolt has smashed through.

"You have got to be kidding! I like, _just_ got that fixed from the _last_ time you did that!"

Hungary gestures towards the door. "Head on in. I'll tell them that you took the news and said not to worry about it and-"

"No." Germany gestures to Hungary. "You are staying with us. I have a feeling I may need you here."

Hungary's gaze is wary, but she nods. The three countries walk through into Poland's house. Poland gapes as Germany, Hungary and Myata calmly walk through the door. Calmly, Hungary gives the door a flick, sending it slamming back. It creaks open a tiny bit, but Hungary ignores it, instead sprawling down on the couch.

Germany stands across from Poland. Myata notices that Poland isn't really scared of Germany, per se. He has an air of complete nonchalance about him. It's almost irritating.

"So," Poland says. "What's it now? What do you want?"

Germany, still standing, gestures to Myata. Hungary looks around, analysing everything in a flippant, brusque, boyish sort of way.

"Did you here the conversation outside?" Myata begins. Poland shrugs.

Myata feels a surge of anger at his offhandedness. This was _serious!_

" _Did you or did you not?"_

Poland immediately snaps to attention. The intensity in Myata's voice and gaze alerted him that she wasn't playing around.

"I heard, I heard! You're like, the new country. Totally fabulous idea showing up in Russia, by the way. Did you see Liet?"

Myata bites her lip and exhales in frustration. He's attentive now, sure... "As in Lietuva? Yes, I saw him. Now, just be serious for one moment. _Do you know me?"_

Poland's nonchalant act, for a moment, slips. And for that one, split second, Myata sees past the mask. He knows her. Definitely.

Germany steps forward menacingly. Immediately, subtly, Hungary turns to face Poland as well.

"Answer her, Poland." Germany's voice is dripping with threat.

Poland shrugs. "Maybe." But his gaze darts between the three countries, eyes wary.

Germany steps forward again. "That's not the full answer."

Poland takes out a small piece of yellow cloth from his pocket. It's cut into some shape. Poland throws it onto the coffee table. "There's your answer."

Hungary swoops in and swipes it off the table before Germany or Myata can see. Her eyes scan it quickly, then her gaze slowly travels up. It is almost... hurt. Confused.

"Germany..." Hungary licks her lips. "I know I cooperate, and do what you say, but..." with a flash, Germany is knocked to the ground, blood spurting from his nose. Hungary shakes out her right hand, murmuring something about a tighter fist.

Myata stares at the two countries, confused and panicked. Poland, no longer slouching, is gaping, mouth open, at Hungary, as though she's done something that has previously been prohibited by the laws of physics.

Hungary rounds on Myata, eyes wild. "Go! Go _now!"_

Myata backs away, stumbling over a chair leg. "Wh-what? Why?"

"If you value your life, get out of here! Now! Go!" Hungary's eyes and voice are wild, desperate.

Myata doesn't move. "I- I don't understand-"

Hungary makes a wild gesture with her hand. "GO!"

Germany groans, stirring. Hungary slams her foot down onto Germany's head, and a sharp crack fills the room. Poland gasps, jerking back in his seat. Myata recoils, turning tail and running out.

Myata runs through the white, running past Poland's house, away from the van, running as fast as she can through the snow. She can still hear the sharp crack of Hungary's vicious attacks, nonchalant, irking comments that Poland made.

As she runs, Myata can feel the sea of red forming behind her, waves of blood crashing down and lapping at her heels, threatening to drown her.

So close. So, so close... so close too having an answer, yet so far. A tear slips down Myata's cheek. Myata's legs burn, but Myata refuses to stop. A rumble chases through the air. Thunder. Myata looks up above the tree line just in time to see a ferocious stroke of lightning slash the sky. Rain begins falling, followed by another desolate rumble of thunder.

Myata closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, a fierce new determination burns inside of them.

The sea of red is gone.

* * *

**Chapter 9: David and Goliath**

* * *

Myata has been running- well, walking -for what feels like years. In reality, it's only been hours, but dawn is nearly breaking.

Myata knows, she can just sense- she hasn't yet left Poland. She hasn't yet left Germany's territory.

Finally, exhausted, unable to continue, Myata collapses. Tears are streaming from her eyes, falling silently onto the snow. Her chest heaves from the deep breaths and the sobs. Everything is dark. Nothing but the pearly white snow and the glowing moonlight.

Sobs wrack Myata's weak body. She feels so weak... just like the time in Russia... cold... so cold...

Black invades the world and her vision, tendrils crawling throughout the world, painting her vision with strokes of black, until Myata is no longer sitting in the snow.

She is sitting in a battleground.

She is within a smoky city. The sky, the buildings, everything is grey, as if coated with a layer of ash. She is standing on the side of a central street. Suddenly, from nowhere, blood paints the sky.

The bloody red flag.

A man next to her in Polish military uniform yells out. "Retreat! Warsaw is about to fall! I repeat, _Warsaw is about to-_ "

Gun shots sound and the man's body jerks. Myata screams as his white, glazed, dead eyes stare straight at her as the battered man falls.

"Run!" another man screams. A woman, a woman in a white shawl stained with blood, lies crumpled on the ground. Of it's own accord, Myata's body starts moving towards her.

"Mama! Ima!" Myata calls out. The woman looks up. There is a bullet wound in her side.

"Mama!" Myata stops short.

The woman... Myata's mother. She stands, limping over to Myata, putting her arm around her. "It's all right, _kochanie._ It's just-" she winces. "Those blasted- Nazis-"

Without warning, Myata's mother crumples to the ground.

Myata knows she's only thirteen. She knows her father is gone. She knows she can't loose her mother too. For a moment, she thinks it's her heart. But she knows the sounds of soldiers marching.

" _Kochanie-_ " Myata's mother gasps. Myata runs to her. The sound is getting closer. Myata's mother has warm brown eyes, the warmest Myata has ever seen. Her beautiful brown hair is wavy and soft, but marred by matted, dried blood. She looks up to her daughter.

"Mama, Ima, don't go," Myata weeps. "Don't leave me."

Her mother shakes her head. "It's all right, _kochanie._ Just remember, everything is going to be all right... all right..." Her eyes begin to glaze over. "All right... I love you, _kochanie_..."

Suddenly, her body goes still. Her eyes dull. Her breath wheezes out... and she's gone.

"Mama?" Myata begins to tremble. "Mama? _Mama!"_

Myata's her tortured scream scars the streets of Warsaw.

Myata slowly stands. Tears stain her face, but her face is marred with something else. Hatred. Vile, malicious, all-consuming hatred.

Myata turns and runs. She runs and runs, through the grey streets, stained with red. Fallen bodies lie on the ground. Only soldiers. The citizens kept safe, alive to watch the Nazi triumph. Except for her mother. Except for the one person Myata has- _had_ -left. The sound of marching echoing throughout the city, pounding in time with Myata's heartbeat.

Myata runs and runs until she reaches the main square. A crowd of ragged people watch on as the marching comes ever closer.

Myata pushes through the crowd, moving through until she's at the front.

One man stands alone in the centre of the square. He has straight, chin-length straw blond hair and green almond-shaped eyes. He wears a tattered green military uniform and a short cape covering his shoulders and a bloody wound; blood had seeped through on the right side.

_I've seen him before..._

Myata stands, watching, transfixed, as the bloody red flag slashes through the sky. Soldiers, hundreds, marching through the streets of Warsaw. At the front, two tanks, backing up another man.

Blond hair, ice blue eyes, a strong build and an equally icy expression. His military uniform is stained with blood. He evokes fear in the very air, so stoic, so straight.

_I know him..._

The icy man steps forward. "We have won! Do you accept defeat, or do you wish to stand and loose every one of you're people?"

The crowds murmur. The green-eyed man looks up. "You have not won, Ludwig Beilschmidt. You will not win. The will of Poland will not be so easily crushed."

The crowd rumbles in a soft cheer. Myata's heart beats off the charts. _You tell them, green-eyed man!_

Ludwig Beilschmidt points at him, eyes narrow. "Do you accept?!" He yells. His voice echoes around the grey city.

The man on the left looks to Beilschmidt, then casts his eyes down. A fierce anger burns within them. "No."

Beilschmidt steps forward. "Feliks, you know Warsaw must fall."

The green-eyed man, Feliks, trembles in anger. His angry, hatred-torn eyes travel up to Beilschmidt. He opens his mouth, about to give a scathing retort.

Myata suddenly feels the weight of a stone in her hands. From somewhere, nowhere, an idea strikes her. The stupidest, the craziest, the last idea of her life.

Myata body moves, running towards the two men. She stands in front of Feliks, determination lighting a flame in her heart.

 _Don't worry, Mama,_ Myata breaths. _I may not be able to avenge you, but I can try!_

"God damn you!" Myata screams. "God damn you monsters!"

With that, Myata hurls the stone straight at the German's forehead.

For a moment, the world slows down. Every ounce of Myata's anger carries that stone through the air, on a direct trajectory to the spot to kill.

From nowhere, the German's hand snatches the stone out of the air.

All at once, the flame goes out, the crowds hope fades, gone.

"Foolish child," he mutters.

Myata stumbles back. A wave of fear and terror crash into her like a tsunami, sweeping her away.

She feels hands on her shoulders. She looks up to see Feliks. His eyes are terrified. "You were brave, child. But you shouldn't have done that."

"Kill her!"

A harsh, guttural voice stains the streets. As one, the crowd draws back in terror.

Feliks and Myata, wide eyed and terrified, turn to the German army. A Nazi soldier had called out those unforgivable words.

With out so much as a blink, Beilschmidt takes a shot gun from his waist. He raises it up.

Feliks, terror in his eyes, pulls Myata back. "No! Stop! NO!"

Two shots scar the air. Beilschmidt's icy eyes don't change. Myata feels herself jerk in Feliks's arms. She feels pain, incredible pain, rip through her chest. She hears the gasp, her gasp. She hears the scream of a woman in the crowd.

She feels herself fall.

The last thing she sees are those terrified green eyes, all-encompassing, before the red flag crashes through them, drowning her in a sea of blood.

Myata's eyes flash open.

That was a memory. Her memory.

Suddenly, a voice rings out through the icy cold forest. "Are you sure she went this way?"

Germany's voice. She will never be able to forget again as Ludwig Beilschmidt- as _Germany-_ callously pulled the trigger.

The moon has clouded over. Trying to protect her. Cloak her in darkness.

"She went this way. I'm sure."

Another sharp German accent stings the night. Myata's heart pounds against her ribcage, the same fear coursing through her as in her memory.

A light glows through in the darkness. Myata scrambles to her feet, but she's weak and sore and collapses again. She forces herself to stand and stumble away.

"There! Did you hear something?" Another German accent. Another two lights appear, spawning of from the first one. Lamps. They would find her.

Myata begins to run again. This time fear and adrenaline send strength to her muscles. She runs through the forest. She comes to a clearing. From every angle, every direction, it seems there's a light. It's getting lighter, steadily lighter, the lamps are getting closer...

All of a sudden, a gloved hand grips her wrist. A numbing terror spreads through her, freezing her over.

"Got you."

Myata turns to see Germany standing in front of her. His stoic eyes are cold, but there's something in there. Sadness.

"Let me go!" Myata's voice is raw. She tries to yank her arm out. "You murderer! God damn you! God damn you monster!"

Germany's grip tightens. He raises her arm up. His ice blue eyes pierce through the darkness. "You remember."

Myata, running out of strength and ideas, kicks out at Germany, but misses. "I remember you killed me!"

Suddenly, laughter rings through the forest.

The moon shies away into the clouds as light fills the clearing. Men fill the area, their lanterns swinging. Each of the has a red arm band, emblazoned with the choking black symbol.

A different man steps forward. She carries himself with importance, with more weight than the others. But his eyes... his eyes are chilling. Myata feels fear course through her. His eyes are insane.

"So we caught ourselves a little rat," he says. His German accent is thick and overbearing. He leans forward. Germany grips Myata's other hand. "What should we do with it? Kill it quickly...? Or slowly?"

Laughter, cruel laughter, rings through the trees.

Myata, enraged, kicks out at the vile man. Her leg misses him, but her anger doesn't dissipate. "You're the rat, you vile man!" She spits. She tries to wrestle from Germany's grip, but his hands are like iron. She feels angry tears spilling over. "You monsters!"

The man's laughter stops. His expression goes cold and hard in a split second. "You are the vile one. You are the abomination on this land, on this earth."

Myata swings her leg up in another kick. This time, she connects with his arm. The man barely moves.

The man gives a cold, harsh laugh as Myata screams in frustration. He leans in further, as though sharing a secret with her. "And I thought Russia would have beaten that sort of thing out of you."

Myata, fear rising, choking her, tries to pull away, but she can't. The man's terrible, terrible laughter echoes through the trees.

Suddenly, a stinging pain bursts through her right ear, carrying through her skull. She feels Germany's grip loosen.

She feels herself fall.

* * *

**Chapter 10: I Am**

* * *

"Augh, my head..."

Myata blinks her eyes open. Everything is fuzzy and blurry. Her chest aches. Grey. Grey stone.

Myata sits up, but a wave of pain crashes through her skull. "Scheiße!"

Immediately at the German word, Myata feels anger surge through her. God damn Germany! God damn him!

Myata looks around. She is lying on the floor in a small square room of grey stone. On one wall there is a rectangular iron door.

"Wow, they think highly of me," Myata mutters. Even though the sarcasm makes her feel a bit better, her hopes sink. An iron door, not a single window, and a minuscule a barred opening within the door. No chance of a twelve-year-old girl breaking out of this.

Myata looks down and her eyes catch a glimpse of a Lithuanian flag stitched into her sleeve cuffs. She feels a small spark of laughter well up inside of her as she realises that for most of her life, including this moment, she has been in Lithuania's military uniform.

Lithuania.

Myata feels a spark of... something. A... presence.

Somehow, she knows. She is in Poland. She was near, close by, to Lithuania. Not in him, but close.

Myata decides to stand, rising slowly, sending waves of pain through her head. Clutching it, she walks to the door, determined. Standing on tiptoe, she tries to see through the small opening.

"Why, _why_ do I still have to be a vertically challenged teenager when all the other countries are fully grown adults?" Myata mutters.

Suddenly, there's a loud clang from the door. Myata recoils, sending waves of pain through her head. She puts her hand to her head, only to snap it away as her hand encounters blood from her ear. Where Germany'd hit her.

Another loud clang. It must be the lock, Myata realises. She stands defiantly, jaw set. She's not scared of Germany or any soldier. They can't kill her. Nothing can.

The door bangs open.

The man standing in the door is huge. He can make two of Myata, maybe three. His strong, muscled build is made even more terrifying by the cold, icy look on his face. He is in German uniform and carrying a gun., the bloody red band on his arm scoring into Myata's vision.

Myata's defiant will sinks. Sure, she can't die... but stuff can still hurt. A _lot._

And being with Germany for a week teaches you how to tell if a gun's safety is off.

"Get up, filth." He motions outside with the gun.

Slowly, Myata rises and begins walking outside. The man stands in her way, pointing the gun at her. "Hands where I can see them. I know you have immunity, which means that I can give you two bullets to the head at any time. Got it?"

Terror rises in Myata's chest. Two bullets firing. A sound she never wants to hear again.

Myata lifts her trembling hands up. The German soldier motions her outside.

Wordlessly, the man marches her through corridors of the prison. More iron doors, stone tiles and sounds of despair. Many doors have placards of wood stating who it is, but every time Myata gets close enough to see one, it's a serial number.

 _This must be a prisoner of war camp,_ Myata realises with dawning dread.

The man doesn't allow her to turn her head, slamming the barrel of the gun into her sore ear whenever she does. Her ear is stinging by the time the man finally, finally leads her outside.

The air is rancid with despair and hopelessness. The courtyard is filled with other soldiers herding different people, some still in tattered uniforms, to different areas or a group of inmates finally allowed out to get some fresh air before the inevitable return indoors. The atmosphere has a thin sense of gloom, distress and anguish, as if every single one of the inmates here has given up. All of them are thin, ragged and half-starved. Guards dot the place, all with those red, eye-scarring armbands. The soldier escorting her mutters in her ear. "See that small grey building over there? That's interrogation. That's where you're going. Don't look at anyone, don't look at the doors and _especially_ don't move your arms."

Myata, dread and panic threatening to suffocate her, wordlessly obeys the command as the man shoves the barrel of his gun into her back, pushing her onwards. Interrogation really, really doesn't sound good. And her immunity will allow her to survive any torture they throw at her.

_Immunity..._

_The reason they want to interrogate me is to see if they can find out who I am,_ Myata thinks, muscles tensing up. The soldier doesn't notice, to busy terrorising another inmate with a death glare.

 _If they find out who I am, they'll be able to make me an official country. And if they do, then another country can kill me! My immunity will disappear if another country kills me physically and geographically when I'm officially recognised!_ Israel's eyes water. _They might not even have to do that. They might just need to know to be able to kill me..._

On this occasion, thinking of Lithuania - or more specifically, the information he gave her - doesn't do anything to encourage Myata. But it does set her heart beating incredibly fast.

She's getting and closer to that building. Closer and closer until she's facing probable death.

_I have to do something... I can't let them kill me again..._

So much for doing what the soldier says.

The soldier turns slightly to silence another inmate being transferred. As he does, the barrel of the gun turns away, ever so slightly, from Myata's back.

But it's enough.

Myata turns and slams her hand down on the soldiers wrist, doing exactly what she saw Germany do the night before to Hungary. The man gasps, dropping the gun. As he does, Myata gives him a knee in the stomach, forcing him to double over. This puts his face, previously too high up, in perfect trajectory. Quick as lightning, Myata follows up with a punch to his face, straight to the nose.

 _Crack!_ Myata grins. _That one was for you, Hungary!_

The man goes down, blood streaming from his nose. Myata picks up the gun.

At once, twenty or so soldiers surround her, yells and shouts drifting around the courtyard. The men's red armbands blur, until she no longer sees men. Just enemies.

The world shifts.

Myata's eyes are to the ground. One says something, but Myata is too far gone. She doesn't care anymore. Germany took her last life. He and his soldiers ruined it, stripping it down until there was nothing left. And then, they ended it. Everything that went wrong for Myata was because of them.

There is nothing but the pounding of blood in her ears, of the soft murmur of voices, of the pulsating red in her vision. What was it Estonia had said? Some countries get very powerful in wars and conflicts. They go into a sort of trance. Some go into it so often, they begin to rely on it. Like Mr Russia. Only for a short time, of course- but they develop superhuman physical abilities when they're in it.

One of the men gasps suddenly. He says something that sounds like "Russia."

Myata looks up. Her eyes are alive with a berserk fire. She knows, she can feel and aura flickering around her- the same aura of terror that Russia gives off.

She doesn't care.

With an animal scream of rage, Myata pulls the trigger. She doesn't pause, doesn't wonder. She feels her body moving, running, punching, kicking, thrashing, moving too fast for a normal human being. Too fast for a bullet.

Myata doesn't stop shooting, the spray of bullets staining the air with red. She doesn't care. She just keep her finger there until the bullets are all gone. She doesn't know how many fall. She feels pain, the echo of it, in her arms, her legs. Grazes. But she doesn't care. She doesn't notice. The world is painted in red, fading i and out of focus, her body moving in accordance with basic animal instincts.

Using the gun, Myata knocks out four more, then turns to the last six. With another scream, she charges into them. She knows they fall as she runs through them.

Myata doesn't stop in her mad dash for the gates. The world is all in red, drowning in the stuff.

Bullets graze her, never piercing her. She is moving too fast. The inmates and guards part, leaping away in terror. Soldiers try to stop her, but all are thrown out the way. As Myata is about to reach the iron doors, she pulls her fist back.

With all the force, anger and desperation she can muster, Myata lets her fist fly.

She crashes through the iron doors, the metal crumpling away.

Soldiers on guard all turn and cry out, raising their guns, but in a flurry of red and fists, they're down for the count. Cries and yells of alarm and other, unidentified emotions echo through the courtyard. She doesn't even notice.

Myata keeps on running. She doesn't look behind her. In front is a dark, pine forest. Her feet carry her there, along the path, faster than a normal human being could dream about.

For two hours Myata keep this up, running at an insane speed, the physical strain never seeming to get to her. Soon, only the tire tracks in the dirt keep the path alive. Without reason, Myata follows it.

A coherent though pushes through the red haze. _How?_

Myata turns the corner, skidding around it. The rubber soles of Lithuania's boots are worn and torn from that run. She skids to a halt, causing a shower of dirt to fly in an arc in front of her. The thought echoes in her head.

All at once, the strength, the red, it fades. Myata braces herself for the incredible exhaustion sure to follow, waiting for the exertion to catch up with her, but it doesn't come. She feels just fine, except for the stinging grazes of the bullets on her skin.

Right before her eyes is a military van.

Myata, eyes wide, begins to walk towards the van. With this, she can make her escape. With this, she can get to Lithuania, to Russia... back to the Soviet Union.

Myata looks back over her shoulder. Germany and Poland wait.

_I'm sorry, Estonia. I have to come back._

Myata is about to walk around to the side of the van when she hears a German accent. She presses herself to the back of the van, ears pricked.

"So, newbie; what do you think of Germany? The person?"

The man's voice makes Myata freeze solid. It is guttural, rough. It is painfully familiar.

"I think the whole idea of countries being people is crazy," replies another accented voice matter-of-factly. "I bet if we tested, he's just normal."

"He's not," says the guttural voice. "Wolfgang? You know how he left? Well, Germany came up, and put his finger on his forehead, and all of a sudden, he forgot all about it!"

"About Germany?"

"Ja! Everything! I've seen him get shot before and keep on fighting. I saw him in Warsaw. This girl came out and chucked a rock at his temple. Perfect aim. Would've killed him. No human'd be able to react fast enough. But he caught it, Hans! He caught it.

Hatred boils in Myata's veins. She definitely knows him. The one who had called out to Germany. The one who had said the unforgivable line. To kill her.

"That's not proof, Johan," says Hans. "I'm talking actual proof. Like bullet in the head proof."

Myata feels loathing, complete and utter loathing burning through her. These men... they have no idea. No idea.

Myata steps out to the side of the van. "Hello."

The two soldiers jump and recoil. One of them is large and broad, with dark brown hair. Johan. The other is shorter, slimmer, more fragile. His hair is blond and his troubled eyes are blue. Myata stands, hands on hips, smiling eerily. She probably looks insane, covered in blood and smiling so creepily.

Suddenly, Johan utters an oath and steps back.

"Sheiße! You're the girl!"

Myata nods happily. "Yes. Yes, I am. I'm the girl you're country murdered."

Johan begins hyperventilating. Hans stares, head going back and forth, hand surreptitiously reaching for his gun.

"Wait... that's the kid 'Germany' shot?" Hans says incredulously.

"Yes," Myata says. She steps up to him. "And now, I'm a country."

"Scheiße, scheiße, scheiße, scheiße, scheiße, scheiße!" Johan swears. "She's here for revenge! Shoot her! Shoot her now!"

Hans sweeps the gun out in front of him and fires twice.

In Myata's mind, the sound echoes. The two shots. The two thuds as the bullets thump into her chest in a spray of blood. The bursts of pain as she stumbles back.

But this time... this time she's not dying.

Hans lowers the smoking gun, staring at her. The two men have blank expressions of shock and horror on their faces.

Myata looks down at her chest, an eerie smile on her face. She looks up again. The smile is tinged with malice. "That hurt." The smile disappears from her face. "You shouldn't have done that."

Myata brings her knee up and slams it into Johan's stomach, followed with an elbow to the head. He crumples, and Myata turns to Hans. Myata swings her fist forward and slams it into the side of Hans's head. She can feel the icky squish of the metal bullets within her flesh. The man stumbles back, but that's not enough to take him down. Myata grabs the gun from his grip in his moment of weakness and brings it up and around, swinging wildly and crashing into his nose.

The man, more like teenager, yells in pain, crumpling to his knees. Myata swings her foot around in a roundhouse kick straight to the side of his head. The man collapses to the ground, unconscious.

Myata swings around, two hands grasping the gun, fingers trembling.

Johan looks pitiful. He's lying on his back, hands up. His expression is of twisted horror, fear and terror.

"Please," he rasps. "Please don't shoot me. Please..."

And in that one moment, Myata's sanity hangs in the balance.

She can shoot him. Shoot him, and forsake everything, all of the dregs of coherence and hope left within her. She can shoot him and become as bad as them. She can shoot him, and have her revenge. She can shoot him and make it equal; her life for his.

But she can leave him be. She can leave him be, and leave herself intact, morally righteous. She can forgive, but not forget. She can try.

Myata squeezes the trigger.

The bullets thumps into Johan's midsection. He screams like a piglet as the bullet rips through flesh.

Leaving him alive.

"There," Myata says, throwing away the gun. "It's all up to chance now. Whether or not Hans wakes up, whether or not he has the medical training to save you and whether or not others find you."

Leaving the man whimpering, pleading and sobbing, Myata climbs into the van, covered in blood.

Myata looks down at her red hands. What has she done? What did she just do?

A sudden noise brings Myata back to the present. She sticks her head out the window. Through the trees, she can make out some shapes. A few vans.

Suddenly, a barrage of bullets rips through the air. Myata ducks and they slam into the -thankfully bulletproof- windscreen right where her head had been so a moment ago. The bullets slide and fall onto the floor of the van.

So a 'few' vans.

Myata rolls up the window before any more bullets can come her way, then grips the steering wheel and floors the accelerator. The van screeches into motion, throwing her back against the seat as it speeds forward.

"I don't suppose they have any signs saying where the nearest border is," Myata mutters, cynicism scarring her words. But panic is thumping through her veins, chasing the blood away and making her numb.

Myata's driving is less than stellar. But then again, at what feels like 200 kilometres per hour through a pine forest, whose isn't? The vans behind her pick up the pace until Myata's knuckles are white and her foot trembling from pressing so hard into the accelerator. Her heart thumps in her chest until she's sure her ribcage is going to break. Myata can feel the powerful presence of Russia and Lithuania nearby. Closer, and closer.

She smiles. The idiots, putting her so near a border.

Myata has no idea how lucky she is as all of a sudden the trees end, exposing her to an endless sea of white-covered trees. Myata jumps, causing the van to swerve. In front of her is a series of signs. The one word she catches is in Russian; Россия.

Russia. She has arrived.

Suddenly, she hears a bang as a bullet hits a tyre, causing it to burst. Myata screams as the van skids on the snow covered road, twisting and turning and sliding onto it's side, a sudden heat searing her.

Yells and shouts and the sounds of bullets pounding the van blur in Myata's ears. Myata screams as the van comes to a halt, her body smashing into the already cracked wind shield, smashing through it. Myata's body is thrown into the snow beside the van. Myata shrieks as she feels the bullets in the chests grate against bone.

A man appears above her, about to grab her. Myata screams. Someone yells a warning. And then a blast of heat sears Myata's nerves and vision, the force of it blowing her into the air. The man disappears in flames. So does Myata.

This pain is the worst by far. Everything is heat, pure heat. Myata wishes her body would just burn away so that she can die, that it can all be over. Myata can feel the military suit, rather than burning, melting onto her skin, the bullets in her chest melting as well, moulding with her skin...

Suddenly, Myata's body crashes into snow. The heat recedes. Myata gasps in relief as the cold, the blessed cold seeps into her bones. Myata manages to crack open her eyes to see that she has gotten across the border.

She's in Russia. And he'll know.

The soldiers don't care. They're crossing the border, coming to get her. Those who weren't burnt alive as the van she was in exploded. Myata closes her eyes. She honestly couldn't care about anything any more.

Suddenly, the yelling of the soldiers turns to screaming. Myata feels her body being rolled over onto her back, and concerned voices all talking at once.

"Myata!"

Myata forces her eyes open. Lithuania. It's Lithuania, Estonia and Latvia. Myata turns her head slightly to see Russia. He is holding something long and silvery in his hand, covered in blood.

"Myata, please. It's okay. We're here." Estonia puts his hand on Myata soldier. Quietly, he whispers, "You shouldn't have come back."

"I-" Myata hacks out the blood in her mouth, coughing and choking. She can feel the blood on her chin. "I had to."

Lithuania shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. It's all right, Myata. Don't worry. You're safe."

The screaming of the soldiers stops.

Suddenly, Myata feels something jarring. She freezes, her eyes glazing over. This feeling...

"Myata?" Estonia looks on worriedly. Latvia pokes his head through. Myata can feel Russia's gaze on her.

"No. Not Myata," Myata whispers. "Malka Levin."

Myata opens her mouth to speak, but the voice that comes out is not hers. It is the voice of thousands, millions of people. Those young and old, those gone from this world and those still here. From one day a go and two thousand yeas ago. The voice is dark, wistful, hopeful, sorrowful, joyful, hateful, despairing and bright. It's everything. As Myata speaks, all the countries are compelled to listen.

"I am the forgotten dream. I am the trampled hope. I am the abandoned wish. I am the Holy Land, I am Israel."

* * *

**Chapter 11: History Shall Never Know**

* * *

**MAY 14th, PRESENT DAY**

Israel sighs and looks out the window. She has a sinking feeling that, no matter how old she grows, she'll always be in the body of the twelve-year-old Polish girl who was killed by two bullets to the chest.

Her flag is waving around outside, testimony of the day she believes to be the day of her independence. No matter how much she wishes to follow the lunar calendar, May 14th always sticks in her mind.

It is a day in which history knew her, recognised her. The hardship she has gone through before... history would never know. Never care. Never tell.

That was a secret between her... and the Soviet Union.

Israel sighs again, and traces the outline of one of the thin, white, never-fading scars on her arms.

* * *

**MAY 14th 1948**

Israel shudders in anticipation. No one noticed, but the 250 guests in the room are joined by a 251st. Israel feels a small tear staining a cheek. It took all these years. For so long, she had been nothing but a spirit, a fragile hope, easily broken.

But she's made it now. Israel is now to be a country.

Israel sits in the back of the room of the Tel Aviv Museum. Her heart beats frantically in her chest. Only that man, David Ben-Gurion, knows who she is. As the message had said, people arrived at 2:30 PM. This whole meeting had been kept mostly a secret, for fear of England finding out and attempting to stop it, or the Arab armies invading early.

Ben-Gurion bangs his gavel on the table. After a moment of silence and glances shared, Israel opens her mouth and starts to sing.

_Kol-'od balevav penimah_

__Nefesh yehudi homiyah..._ _

A well of happiness bubbles inside of her as the song rises out among the others in the room.

___Ulefa'atei mizrach kadimah,_ _ _

____'Ayin letziyon tzofiyah;_ _ _ _

Israel feel a pause in the room, a swell of anticipation. A grin splitting ear-to-ear, she sings out the next line, meaning every word.

_Od lo avdah tikvateinu,_

Our hope is not yet lost.

_Hatikvah bat shenot 'alpayim,_

The hope of two thousand years.

_Lihyot 'am chofshi be'artzeinu,_

To be a free people in our land.

_'Eretz-Tziyon viyerushalayim._

The land of Zion and Jerusalem.

Israel feels complete elation as the 250 people cheer and clap. They have no idea how right the song is. No idea how _Hatikvah_ has gotten it so correct. The first verse; 'as long as a soul still yearns.'

_As long as a soul still yearns, I will exist. I have existed, for those two thousand years, as a hope. And now, I'm being realised._

For sixteen minutes, Ben-Gurion reads out the declaration. Israel is not the only one periodically glancing toward the entrance, waiting for England to rush through, to grab her arm, to drag her out and stop the proceedings.

But Ben-Gurion is not interrupted. England does not barge through the doors in his military uniform with rage on his face. Israel's pounding heart and searing adrenalin remain unfounded.

"Let us accept the Foundation Scroll of the Jewish State by rising," Ben-Gurion says. Israel's eyes are wide, her teeth cutting into her bottom lip, her entire torso leaning forward, waiting for those final words.

The Rabbi Fishman stands to to recite the Shehecheyanu blessing. As he begins, Israel's hand is clenched tight around the grip of a small pistol, the safety off. England will not- _can_ not ruin this.

The Rabbi stops. There is a moment of silence.

And then the cheers.

* * *

**MAY 17th 1948**

Israel's pure elation can be ruined by nothing. Not even four other Middle Eastern nations ganging up on her. Not even England hauling her over the coals (almost literally; he's _that_ upset) can ruin her mood.

Not only is she now an official country- but America has _de facto_ recognised her. Not only that, he's been followed by six other countries! Two of them are Iceland and Romania, both of which Israel has met before.

Now, Israel is once again sitting in a chair in front of England, watching him pace.

"I just don't understand _why,_ Israel?! _Why_?!" England slams his fist down on the table between them, making Israel jump. "It was the stupidest thing you could have done! Almost all of the Middle Eastern nations are out for your blood, and now mine as well for taking care of you! Your army is fighting as we speak!"

England sighs and stands, running a hand through his hair. Israel's euphoric mood withstands England trying to pin the blame on her.

England glances at her sideways. "I'd've thought, after Russia, you'd know better than this."

Immediately, Israel's euphoric mood is chased away. Dark memories broil under the surface, and a terrible, terrible rage builds up in her. Similar words from Germany's boss only nine or so years ago- only years? -came back to her.

_And I thought Russia would have beaten that sort of thing out of you._

Israel stands, her hands slamming down onto the table. "The reason he was able to use me like that was because I wasn't an official country! Because history would never recognise that it had happened! Because the rest of the world would never know! Only the human parts of us would ever know. This way, it will never happen again!"

"Never happen again?" England echoed, leaning forward, hands on the table. "Now, every world superpower will be competing for dominance over you! It's not enough that I already control you, making the others jealous, oh no, it's the fact that _almost all of them_ have ethnic claims to you! Even Russia! I thought you were smarter then this!"

At the mention of Russia's name once again, a jolt of something cold and clammy and vile grips her stomach. Fear. Cold fear. "And I thought that you'd respect me enough to _leave him out of this_!"

Suddenly, there is a loud knock on the door. England turns to accept a message from a soldier, who salutes, giving her an odd stare before running out of the room. Not one who knows.

England's eyes scan the message, a storm gradually building. "Looks like he decided to involve himself anyway."

A jolt of fear overtakes Israel once again. "What!? What does it say?!"

England tosses her the message. "Well, for you, I'd say, it's good news."

Israel's eyes dart across the message, taking everything in. After she reads it, re-reads it. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Slowly, she puts it down, mouth open.

The Soviet Union, namely, Russia, had recognised her _de_ _jure._ Meaning, with rightful entitlement and claim. _  
_

Her heart is beating fast. Although Israel wishes she couldn't acknowledge it, she knows the true meaning; it's his way of saying sorry.

* * *

**SOMETIME IN WWII, AFTER ISRAEL'S RETURN TO RUSSIA**

Myata, Israel, Malka, she doesn't know which. All she knows is that she has made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania all crowd around her, bandages and pills and words passing between them. It's all just a blur to Israel. Pain beats in her chest, thrumming along side her heart. All she can think about is the reasons Estonia warned her away, the reasons she is about to discover, and the terrible memories that haunt her.

Malka Levin was not the most well off of children. Born Jewish, of course not. She was one of the most sarcastic children you'd ever meet, cynical and smart-alecky, but she was determined. Determined to have good life, to be happy. So idealistic. So strong in her faith. So pessimistic, so negative, yet so sure that in the end all would be well.

But in the end, it hadn't gone well.

Her father used to live in Russia, and was conscripted to fight in WWI, before she was born. He had come back traumatised, distanced from life, moving immediately to Poland. Yet Malka had still been born. So few years after her birth, he had left life for good.

Then, in the attack on Poland, she could not even die in the peace of knowing her mother might still be alive. No, her mother had died, then she.

Only Malka had not been allowed to join her.

After the battle, when everything was smog and smoke and covered and hidden, Malka had risen once more. As Israel. She had made her way to Russia. And then, her human self had left her, only to come back when the time was right.

But history still did not know of her story.

And as the terrifying presence of Russia loomed near, Malka, Myata, Israel knew... that he would take advantage of that. He could do anything he wanted, and history would never know.

It would be their little secret.

* * *

**Chapter 12: Reason and Reasons**

* * *

**SOMETIME IN WWII**

Israel's eyes flash open. The panic-ruled rush of adrenalin fades quickly, as does the blindness of whatever dream she had, to be replaced by grey.

Grey. Cold. Shivering.

Israel sits up. As her body shifts, she realises she is lying in an all-too-familiar bed in an all-too-familar room. There is something odd about what she is feeling, but Israel can't quite put her finger on it.

Suddenly, Israel gives a rough cough, her chest spasming. All at once, Israel knows what is odd.

The absence of pain in her chest.

Israel's hand goes straight there, feeling at the exact spots at the top of her ribcage. No evidence at all of the two bullet wounds. Not even slight bruises or fading scars.

Country immunity at it's finest.

Somewhat heartened by lack of pieces of metal inside her chest, Israel swings her feet across and out of the bed, letting her bare toes touch the floor. Israel shivers involuntarily at the cold, but stands anyway.

Immediately, Israel's legs give out and she falls forward, catching herself on hands and knees on the cold stone floor. Israel's body, if healed on the outside, is still weak within. Israel pushes herself to stand, shaking and shivering. Her muscles protest, but she finally manages.

Israel looks down at herself. She is wearing what seems to be a simple, unaffiliated military uniform, a mirror of Lithuania's but without any marking that show allegiance. Israel feels oddly comforted by being in what is basically the same clothing she has worn throughout her current life.

A snippet of memory flashes past. A long grey dress, simple and straightforward. The faceless figure of her mother beside her.

Israel shudders, trying to chase the memory away. No memories. No more pain. No more Germany, no more Poland, no more Warsaw. No more red flag.

Israel spies a pair of boots beside the door, with a note tacked on in Cyrillic reading 'Myata'. Considering the size, they must have been Latvia's.

Israel takes a few shaky, torturous steps forward, unbalanced and shivering. The moment she reaches the other side, she collapses against the wall, shivering and shaking the whole time. Sliding down to the ground, not trusting herself on one foot, Israel slips the boots on. Admittedly with a lot of help from the wall, Israel pulls herself up to stand once more.

Israel tries the door handle with a shaking hand. The door clicks open, opening slightly. Israel slips through silently.

The corridor outside is empty. Israel looks left, then right, trying to remember which way the library is. She'll likely find at least one of the Baltics there... and hopefully not Russia.

Israel turns her head twice more. Relying on a gut instinct, Israel goes with left and begins her shaky walk in that direction.

Gaining confidence with each step, after a few Israel doesn't need to consciously think about her actions, instead letting her mind wander to other topics.

Analysing the corridor, hoping to jog her memory, Israel counts the number of doors. She notes the fact there are doors on both sides, indicating this corridor is not directly next to the outside. She notes the double doors at the end of the corridor. She is pretty sure the library had double doors. _Pretty_ sure. She takes in the fact the floor is tiled.

Israel at last reaches the double doors. She reaches for the handle, but self-preservation instincts kick in and she first leans in, pressing her ear against the wood, listening in.

Unfortunately, the trick doesn't work as well as it's reputation says. Israel can hear murmurs, but not enough to determine the murmur's owners or their words.

Israel decides to risk it. Her hand, already clutching the handle of the right door, begins to turns it.

The door suddenly swings open inward, causing Israel to stumble forward, unbalanced. On the upside, Israel was correct; this is the library. On the downside, holding the door wide open is the tall and imposing figure of Russia.

"Hello, Israel."

Russia's innocent gaze burns into Israel, hiding some darker secret beneath the surface. Israel wilts away from Russia's terrifying presence, hunching in, the shaking of her limbs doubling as the clammy claws of fear grip her.

"Israel?!"

Behind Russia are none other than all three Baltics, gathered at the table in the centre of the large room. Each looks worse for wear, but Estonia is certainly the worst off. He appears to have just been in a fight, and lost. Badly. He is clutching his left ear, that side of his head bloodied, almost completely covered in red. His face is bruised, his lip split and bleeding. The other two are supporting him, Lithuania holding out a piece of cloth.

Israel takes in the expressions. Russia's dark one, Estonia's defeated one, Lithuania's shocked one and Latvia's fearful one. Israel does not know what to feel, stuck in a rift between relief at seeing the Baltics, especially, Lithuaniae, or the terror of Russia's presence.

"It seems you are awake," Russia says, cutting through Israel's thoughts. He places his hand on Israel's shoulder, his grip strong and steely. "I'm sure you'd love to have a reunion, da?"

He steers Israel into the room, grip unrelenting. Israel's body is shaking so violently now she is now sure she can trust it with staying upright.

"There now." Russia releases Israel beside a chair next to the table. Slowly, she lowers herself into it, trying as hard as she can to stop shaking and failing miserably.

"Israel, I'm so glad you're awake!" Lithuania bursts out. Everyone else all snaps to look at him. Lithuania begins to quake, but continues. "We were really worried earlier... when we saw how deep the wounds were, and where the bullets had landed... but after we took them out, you still ended up healing perfectly."

Israel is silent for a moment. Then, she opens her mouth to speak. "Where did the bullets land?"

Her voice is soft. Shaky. But present.

Lithuania doesn't speak. He hangs his head.

"O-one l-landed in f-f-flesh," Latvia says shakily. "N-n-nothing s-serious. Th-the other..."

There is a moment of silence. Israel stares at the three nations, but none dare to open their mouth.

"The other landed in your heart."

Israel freezes. "Wh-what?"

Russia's light voice, those dark words. An impossibility in every way.

Russia puts his hand on Israel's shoulder. Once more that cold iron grip. "You are incredibly lucky to not be a full country yet, Israel. And that a country was not the one to shoot you."

Israel pulls herself away, body shaking. She stands, turning so that she faces all four countries. "How long? How long was I unconscious like that?"

"Two weeks," Lithuania says softly.

"Two weeks," Israel echoes.

"Israel, you should know that Germany will not be forgiven for what he has done," Russia says. "As long as you are here, he cannot hurt you."

The words promise safety. But the tone belies something menacing beneath the surface.

With that, Russia stalks from the room, leaving by the other pair of double doors, letting them slam shut behind him. The three countries and one almost-country all jump.

After a moment, Israel runs to Estonia. "What happened? Were you attacked by another country? Why? How bad is it?"

"It's fine, Israel, it's fine," Estonia murmurs. "I'll heal. Slowly, but I'll heal."

"This was done to his human self," Lithuania says quietly. "By Russia."

Israel stares at him. "What? Why?"

Estonia gives a small smile, but it turns out as more of a grimace. "I argued for you."

Israel is not sure whether this is normal or not. "What do you mean?"

Estonia sighs. "Because of Germany, Russia has a surefire way to keep you here. I tried to 'reason' with him. To let you go. I failed."

Israel stares at him.

Estonia continues. "You have nowhere else to go but into Poland if you want to get out of Soviet territory. And that mean you stay here, or Germany catches you."

Horror struck as it dawned on Israel. "And they'll find out who I am..."

Lithuania nods, his voice soft. "Yes. And his boss _will_ make him find a way to kill you."

Israel is shaking so hard she has to sit down. "But that means that I... I'm-"

"Trapped," Latvia murmurs. "Just like us."

* * *

**SEPTEMBER 6TH, PRESENT DAY**

Israel opens her wardrobe and takes out civilian clothing, clothing that she rarely wears. Most days it is an IDF uniform, despite her twelve-year-old appearance. But today is different.

A sleeveless white turtleneck and tight grey pants. A yellow clip, securing the hair to the right of her face. The denim shoes were lost, so on go boots which still have a minuscule Latvian flag stitched on the back.

She makes a stop at the kitchen for a small bag. Nestled within are jam-filled donuts, latkes, ozne haman and any other Jewish treat she could be bothered to cook.

Israel leaves her house as Malka Levin, not as Israel. No longer do people stare as she walks past, only to forget they'd ever seen her. This time, when people see her, all they see is another ordinary young girl traversing the streets.

When no one is in sight, Malka picks her pace up to a run. After a few paces, the world blurs, but not because of Malka's speed. A moment, another- and Malka has succeeded.

Malka has entered a parallel to reality. She can see her house, just a few paces behind her. Her house represents her country. She can see the houses of a few nations from her own, being a small country. This way it doesn't take as long to travel between countries. From Israel to Germany would only be about two blocks.

Israel begins her walk, the temperature dropping slightly as she reaches southern Europe. The cold becomes stronger the further north she gets, more and more snow visible, until the ground is completely snow-covered.

Finally reaching the house she wanted, Israel steps up and knocked on the door. It was a surprise visit, but still likely they'd all be there.

"Hello- _Myata?!"_

"Shalom," Malka grins up at Lithuania's surprised face. She holds up the bag. "I brought food. Can I come in?"

Lithuania smiles and ushers her in. Inside, unsurprisingly, are Estonia and Latvia. All three Baltics are in civilian, if slightly celebratory clothing. There is already a large selection of food laid out on the table, and Malka simply adds her own.

"Anyone else coming?" Malka asks innocently.

"It was really only supposed to be us," Latvia answers. "But your surprise visit is nice."

"Let's hope we don't get more surprises," Estonia shudders. Malka gives him a light punch on the arm. "Come on, Eduard! Today is not a day to think about Russia! This is a _happy_ day."

In reality, _Israel_ would never have come to this small party. _Latvia, Lithuania_ and _Estonia_ would have been confused at _Israel_ coming, but Raivis, Toris and Eduard are all glad to see their friend. _Israel_ would barely notice, but Malka makes sure to always celebrate this day, with or without the Baltics.

"Myata's right," Lithuania nods. "Today is a happy day." He takes out four glasses from the cupboard, placing them on the table. As the four fill up their glasses and raise them to toast, Malka cannot help but smile.

"To your independence."

* * *

**SOMETIME IN WWII**

As Israel slowly puts one foot in front of the other, wincing each time the snow crunches beneath her boots, she wonders once more if what she is doing is a good idea.

On foot, no food, only unallied military uniform for clothing... escaping from Russia. With the only way out straight into another hell; Germany.

Israel shivers involuntarily. Russia's house looms behind her, but the snow-covered trees that form a thin forest somewhat hide her from view. It's not much, but it may be enough to hide her from view for enough time to let her make her escape. Just.

Israel sneaks through the trees, careful to keep out of sight of the myriad of windows within the house, ducking behind trunks ever now and again. Her limbs feel awkward and jerky, muscles shaking and shivering and giving out at the worst moments.

Suddenly, the trees stop. Israel stops too, taking in the sight before her. A huge lake, completely frozen over, nothing but snow and trees around it in a ring. There is a small break in the trees all the way over on the other side, through which Israel could see a gravel path.

If Israel could just get past it, then surely she'd be home free. She'd figure everything out from there. Maybe she'd find Hungary; Hungary protected her before, surely she'd do it once more?

Israel gingerly stepped out onto plain snow, leaving the comfortable cover of trees behind her. Taking a deep breath, she takes another step.

"Going somewhere?"

Israel screeches and trips over, her heart leaping in her chest. She lands in the cold snow, soaking through and freezing her physically as much as panic freezing her mentally.

Russia is standing above her, serene smile on his face. No. NO. He shouldn't be here. This is terrible, terrible mistake...

He takes a step forward. "Surely you know that only torture and possible death await you in Germany, da?"

Israel pulls herself away, but her back slams into a snow drift. She is stuck. Cornered. She feels like a rabbit about to be caught in a hunt; heart beating fast, fear threatening to reach in and pull the rug of life out from under her feet.

Russia takes another step forward, looming over Israel. His face doesn't change, but there is something menacing in the air around him. "I am doing you a favour by protecting you. You do not want to loose my favour."

"Protection?!" Israel half-gasps-half-cries. A surge of anger gives her strength. "Like you protect the Baltics from whoever it is you're fighting against?! That's not protection, that's the lesser of two evils!"

One second Russia was towering over her. The next, he's _right there,_ his hand to Israel's throat, pressing her down into the snow. Israel gasps and chokes, terror and Russia's crushing iron grip chasing the breath out of her.

"I may not be able to kill you," Russia says, leaning in. His tone is genial, but his expression is murderous. "But I can still cause you a _lot_ of pain."

* * *

**Chapter 13: Remember No Memory**

* * *

**PRESENT DAY**

Israel is sitting on a bench in the middle of a mall in Tel Aviv. The day is hot; uncomfortably so. But thankfully, not all of her is Ashkenazi, and she bears the heat well.

Israel honestly does not know how the others deal with it. The loneliness. Israel remembers that Malka loved to be alone. Now, Israel finds it naive. It's torture, having everyone that laid eyes on you turn away and forget they'd ever seen you. No friends. No one to talk with, no one to cry with, no one to laugh with.

Israel sighs, laying her head back. The current political situation is eating away at her. She constantly feels the pull of the right wing Jews, seeming more and more like the majority which she must personify. Yet there is also Malka, quietly inside, and the Jews that are not part of her, and those within that voice other opinions. They warn her away from the dangerous policies, yet her boss is determined, her sureness withering.

Suddenly and without warning, a figure sits beside her. Israel jumps, startled.

"Sorry! Did I startle you?" The girl is a similar physical age as Israel, it seems; about fifteen. She has the olive skin, angular facial features, frizzy brown hair and dark brown eyes that mark her out as the stereotypical Israeli. Israel feels as though she is looking at who she should have been.

The girl, obviously unsure at Israel's lack of response, continues to speak. "My name is Dana Shani," she says with a grin, sticking out her hand. "What about you?"

Israel takes her hand, forcing a smile. "Uh, Myata." _Oops..._ "Myata... Levin."

Dana laughs, shaking Israel's hand with the vigour that came with being blissfully unaware of the world's workings. "Nice name! Are you from Russia?"

Israel's smile becomes fixed. The country within her shrugs this off. But Malka within her is terrified. The country wins. "I'm from a lot of places."

Dana accepts that as an answer. "Yeah, my family is from all over the place too."

At the word, Israel almost winces. _Family..._

She continues, oblivious. "So, what're you doing in this area? Do you live around here?"

 _Technically._ "Yes."

Dana grins. Israel cannot help but smile.

Soon, the two girls are talking like any normal girls out on the weekend. Israel slowly forgets she is a country, her smile becoming more and more easily won.

"Have you seen the movie that just came out? The one they keep on showing the trailer for on TV?" Dana asks. Malka shakes her head, interested. Dana gapes at her in mock shock.

"But that movie is the _best!"_ Dana starts listing off qualities that made the movie awesome. Laughing, Malka stops her, asking about a book she knows is popular.

Suddenly, Dana starts and grabs a phone out her pocket, staring at the time.

"Sorry, I gotta go!" She apologises. "It was nice to meet you!"

Malka smiles. "It was nice to meet you too."

"Bye!"

And suddenly, when Dana stands and turns away, a blank look passes over her face. The smile fades. Her eyes dim.

A pang of pain strikes Malka's heart. Dana no longer remembers.

And as the brunette walks away, Israel feels the terrible urge to burst into tears.

* * *

**SOMETIME IN WWII**

Israel's fingers scrabble uselessly at Russia's iron grip. Spots dance in her vision, and she is beginning to feel light-headed. She can no longer breath. Alongside her heartbeat, terror pounds away, some small part of her terrified of death, even though she knows it can't happen. The sudden possibility seems closer, closer...

So close to freedom... So, so close...

And suddenly, air, blissful air, is rushing into her lungs, stinging them with cold. Israel gasps and splutters, heaving for breath. Her vision and head begin to clear, her body no longer numb, feeling and with it cold seeping back into her.

Russia stands over her, face impassive. "Stand up."

Israel pushes herself up to all fours, still gasping. Trembling, her attempts to stand fail and she collapses back onto the snow.

Russia grabs the back of her neck, hauling her skinny frame up with ease. He half-throws her against a tree, Israel slamming into it with a cry.

Russia stalks toward her, threatening and foreboding. "Walk. Now."

Shaking, Israel stumbles forward, back toward the house. Her muscles still haven't recovered, and she collapses against a tree, unable to hold herself.

Russia grabs Israel's left wrist, twisting harshly. Israel screeches as it snaps, pain flaring up her arm.

"I told you to walk."

Russia lets go of Israel's wrist. Though there are tears in her eyes, a whimper on the tip of her tongue, pain throbbing in her wrist and her limbs are shaking, Israel still walks forward. Although she moves slowly and she is shaking so hard she's about to fall over, Israel continues to walk.

 _Why?_ Israel thinks for a moment. _Let him hurt me. He can't kill me..._

But Israel is not that brave. Though logic tells her to stop, she cannot, for fear of the pain she will have to face.

_Turn around. Go back..._

The more Israel nears the house, the more the cold terror seeps back in. Her plan had failed. Surely this is not the extent of the punishment Russia would inflict?

Thoughts of the Baltics chase back in. She thinks of their eyes. In Estonia's; the disappointment. In Latvia's; the fear. In Lithuania's; the sadness.

Once more, Israel wonders how the Baltics can live with this, day after day after day. Maybe they don't. Maybe they don't live, just survive.

She knows now, all too well, there is a key difference.

* * *

**PRESENT DAY**

Every few weekends, Dana is in the shopping centre. Most of the time, she comes over to talk. Israel has talked to her twenty-one times now.

Each time, Israel takes it down a slightly different path. She knows much more about the brunette than the brunette will ever know she knows; her full name is Dana Shira Shani. She is fifteen years old. She is in to art, especially design and dance. She wants to move to America to be with some extended family, and for a university opportunity. Also so that she doesn't have to go to the IDF. Israel finds this funny, if slightly offensive. Dana is an Ashkenazi Jew who's family can trace their roots to Poland, Germany, Spain and Portugal. She's been on holiday once in Mykonos in Greece. Her favourite foods are hamburgers and milkshakes.

Every time held new facts, information. Today will be different, however. Very different.

Israel sits on the bench, watching the crowd. In particular, the frizzy brunette hair belonging to a girl holding three plastic bags and scanning her phone. She looks up, putting her hair behind her ear and walks over to the bench, sitting down beside Israel.

Israel turns to her, a small smile on her face. " _Shalom_."

Dana smiles back. " _Shalom!_ " After a pause, she holds out her hand. "My name is-"

"Dana," Israel says, accepting her hand. "Dana Shira Shani. My name is Malka Myata Levin."

Dana stares at Israel, her eyebrows creased. "What the... How do you-"

Israel holds out her hands as if to placate her. "You've come to talk to me twenty-one times. You just don't remember."

"What are you talking about?" Dana moves to stand, but Israel puts her hand on her shoulder.

"Please," Israel says, something vulnerable creeping into her voice. "I haven't had anyone to talk to for decades. No person understands..."

"Decades?" Dana says, eyebrow raised. "You look twelve!"

"Dana, please, just sit down," Israel pleads. "Let me explain."

Slowly, Dana sits. Israel feels a little thrill. Finally, she can talk to someone... a human being, a _person..._

"I am Israel," Israel begins. "I am the country personified. Malka Levin is the name of the person I used to be. She died in Warsaw during the second world war."

Dana stares at Israel, expression torn between incredulity, pity and contempt. Israel continues, choking the words out.

"Now there's two in me. There's Malka, who's a human... and there's Israel, who's the country. You and everyone else in this shopping centre form a part of who I am, my opinion, my goal, my political ideal. But Malka is also there. And I've had no one to talk to for so long..."

Dana licks her lips, eyebrows creased. "Are... are you insane?"

Israel feels a pang of terror. She's failing. And Dana will forget again. "No, Dana! It's real!"

Then, a sudden idea strikes Israel. A horrid, terrible idea. But it had to work. So desperate was she, that she had to show her.

* * *

**SOMETIME IN WWII**

Lithuania works in silence. Israel does her best not to wince as he sets her wrist.

Lithuania sighs, standing. "It's done. Tell me if it's too tight or anything and I'll change it.

"No, it's all right." Israel stands from the rickety wooden stool, slowly moving her left arm and examining her wrist. "It's fine."

"Israel..." Lithuania bites his lip. "There's something you should know."

"What?"

He cringes. "On your... chest."

Israel stares. "What do you mean?"

Lithuania reaches over and unbuttons the top of Israel's uniform. He slowly pulls down the left side just enough so that she can see some of her chest. "Look down."

She complies, eyes searching for anything odd. "What is it? I don't see..." she trails off. "Oh."

There is a number crudely tattooed above her left breast; 100235.

For a moment, Israel just stares at the number. The black has clawed it's way into her skin, now to stay forever like an ugly thorn. Israel pulls away from Lithuania, right hand covering the numbers. "What the hell _is_ that?" She says softly.

Lithuania looks right into Israel's eyes, his own grave. "It's a serial number. From the concentration camp you were in. They stamped it into your skin and rubbed ink into the wound. Because of your immunity, it should have healed. But now it's part of your identity as a country. No matter how you try to get rid of it, it'll always be there."

Israel stares down at her hand, covering the numbers. For some reason, they represent something horrible, something disgusting, revolting. Something truly terrible. She slowly lifts her hand away, eyes unable to move from the inky marks. "Lithuania..." She looks up to him, tears welling in her eyes. Lithuania puts his arms around Israel and draws her into a close hug, allowing her to sink into his arms, dissolving into tears.

"It's all right, Myata. I promise, it's all right."

Israel sobs and pulls her arms around Lithuania. "Wh-why this? Wh-why am I c-crying ab-about this?!" She sniffles angrily, but does not move from the older country.

"Sometimes it just gets to much," Lithuania says, softly putting his arms around the little country. He can feels Israel's tears staining his uniform. "And that's all right. It happens to the best of us."

Israel nods, but does not cease her crying.

Lithuania smiles sadly. "Myata..."

They stand there for a moment. The country and the spirit. One broken, one breaking. One who used to weep become the rock, and the other weeping, holding onto the rock to stay afloat. Both in the same plight.

A minute passes.

"Myata, can you call me Toris?"

Israel looks up at him, eyes red from the tears. "T-Toris?"

"Toris Laurinaitis. It's who I was before... you know. Lithuania."

Israel nods, tears streaming. "All right." She smiles, a tear streaming down to her lips. "T-Toris... a n-nice name."

He smiles. "Thank you. I feel more like myself and less like a country when you call me that."

With that, Israel feels a sudden strength. She sniffles, her sobs diminishing to whimpers and hiccups. Toris pulls away slightly, looking kindly down at the country spirit.

"Myata, can you promise me something?"

She nods, solemn.

"Never, ever forget what real kindness feels like. What real love feels like. Because soon enough, it will become foggier and foggier. You'll begin to wonder if there was ever such a thing. But you must never, ever, _ever_ forget."

* * *

**PRESENT DAY**

Israel pulls down the neck of her t-shirt. Slightly, but it's enough.

Dana can see the number, clear as day.

"El Elohim!" Dana springs away, staring at the number in revulsion. 100235. Clear as day. "Is that a-"

"Serial number," Israel nods. "Yes."

Something completely changes in Dana's gaze. "You... I... what..."

"Dana, it's the truth," Israel whispers. "Please, just... believe me."

Dana stares, her gaze conflicted, unintelligible. Then, it hardens.

"I... believe you."

And suddenly, something in Dana snaps. Something physical. Israel can see it. Her expression changes in the blink of an eye; from stoic seriousness to sudden agony. Israel jumps away as Dana screams, clutching her head. No one notices, no one can see; the glance and then look away, forgetting it ever happened, the sound of her screams fading.

And this time, Israel does burst into tears.

* * *

Israel taps a few more keys, drawing on the full hacking prowess of the IDF. Hospital records fill up the screen. Israel sighs and leans back, eyes fixed on one name; Dana Shira Shani.

Three weeks in a coma. Four weeks longterm amnesia.

No sign of recovery.

Israel puts her head in her hands, terrible guilt coursing through her.

Dana's passions for dance and design... would she ever remember them? Her dream to go to America; would she remember that? What of the joy she'd felt on the holiday to Mykonos, times treasured with her family? Would she ever remember?

It was all her fault. She told Dana she was a country. Dana listened... and now Dana had to pay the price.

* * *

**Chapter 14: Power, Part I**

* * *

**PRESENT DAY**

Israel sits, chin resting on her hand, bored out of her mind.

Israel is rather irritated with her situation. Being in the body of a twelve-year-old yet with the mentality of someone who's lived for longer than possible, she's impatient, easily bored and irritable. But there's a part of her that exists at the same time which is calm and mature. The juxtaposition inside of her felt off.

To make it worse, most world meetings don't ever lead to anything. World meetings have a habit of either being (with the rare laughter-fit inducing exception) mind-numbingly droll, or disastrous. Today (almost unfortunately) is the former.

Israel can spot only one African country in the mix. Most of they time they don't come. Quite a few Middle Eastern nations haven't come either. Sometimes because of problems at home. Sometimes because Israel's there. No Russia, either. Thank God.

She's trying to listen to America, but in her defense, it's rather hard. America is fully steeped in the Republican mindset today, and Cuba's speech has gotten the blond country all riled up about the evils of socialism. Israel sighs, shifting in her seat, forcing herself to tune in long enough to hear another country somewhere to her right mutter "He's in his red today."

Israel sighs, about to zone out again, when she hears a rough, heavily accented voice.

"Hey mate... that's messed up." Australia, being Australia, has to step in and say something. He's leaning back in his chair, legs up on the table, nonchalant as anything.

As usual, Australia's speech is heavily deformed by his heavy accent and excessive Australian slang. Most countries just secretly laugh at him, until they're reminded of Australia's various allies. Picking a fight with America...? Even for Australia, that's stupid. Probably just some brotherly rivalry.

America stares. "Dude, what?"

Australia snorts and sits up properly. "Look, we don't have all day to listen to right-wing rants about how socialism's bad bizzo and should cark it. Mate, we get it."

America is, for once, speechless.

Australia yawns. "Oh, fun fact; you got your colours wrong. Red is left, genius. You're wearing the socialist colour."

Mutters and chuckles of amusement alike rise up among the countries. She can hear England's particularly loud mutter of "Australia, you idiotic git."

Israel rolls her eyes, to the amusement of an Asian country sitting to her left.

America gives the surf-board toting beach-lover an irritated glare. "And what does that have to do with anything?"

Australia shrugs and crossed his arms. "Just a fact."

The Asian country beside Israel shakes his head and mutters "Western nations..." in a resigned tone.

Israel is inclined to agree.

America gives Australia evil look to rival Russia's. "Stay outta this, you Jack."

The room quietens. Israel's eyebrows rise. She shoots a cursory glance at England; his jaw is clenched as tight as his white-knuckled fist.

Some countries call those countries previously or currently under England's rule 'Jacks' after the Union Jack. Mostly to piss off Jack countries. All Jacks consider it an insult.

Australia stands, all seriousness. "Did you just call me that, mate?"

America scowls. "Yeah, I did."

Australia's eyes narrow. He vaults himself over the table in one clean, athletic motion, putting himself within the circle next to the lectern with America. "You're a dinkum hypocrite."

America snorts, stepping forward. "Maybe, but at least I don't pander to England and flash the Jack on my flag."

Israel isn't the only one quietly laughing. China is finding the whole thing hilarious going by the expression on his face. France is snickering, and Spain is busy wiping a smile off of his face. Even one of the stony-faced Nordics is about to crack.

"You're just a bogan who can't get his politics straight. Bugger off back to your blue zone, right-winger!" Australia snarls, face-to-face with America.

A vein in America's temple becomes rather prominent, very quickly. "Now who's the hypocrite?! Go back to your bush land, Koala Kid!"

_"Shut the bloody hell up!"_

Oh great, England.

America and Australia both do so, turning to stare at England, who's now standing.

"It's lovely that you two brothers are having your familial catch up, but could you take it somewhere the rest of the world won't get hit with flying crocodiles and bulls and the people won't be chatting about world war three?"

He has a point.

America and Australia both mutter something indecipherable, stomping out of the circle and down a corridor. As they are about to slam the doors behind them, England calls out. "Thanks for the denunciation of me, by the way! Really nice of you!"

Israel can see two Asian countries whispering, one's eyebrows raised, the other muttering something about Western immaturity. Beside them a Slavic country is shaking her head. Israel is immeasurably glad when Germany stands and suggests - states - for the meeting to be over.

Israel has a lot to think over.

* * *

**SOMETIME IN WWII**

"Check."

Estonia sighs and moves his King to a different square. Lithuania smiles slightly, moving his Queen forward to take a pawn.

"Check."

Estonia groans, moving his King again. "Don't king hunt me again."

Lithuania's smile widens briefly, but flickers just as fast. "I won't be too mean."

Israel sits on a table, lips parted in awe, watching the chess game between the two countries. Some of her people must know how to play, and well, because she can understand exactly what's going on. She can understand exactly how good Lithuania and Estonia are; easily grand masters. Russia's influence, maybe?

The three Baltics and Israel are sitting in the large library, the window showing nothing but darkness; a blizzard at nighttime. A soft fire crackles nearby. Estonia, being the only one of the four to regularly come into contact with foreign affairs, has no particularly exciting or pressing news to share. So the four countries pass the evening playing chess.

Israel, still unused to her surroundings, follows the Baltics along in their everyday chores. Her wrist is still sore from being broken a few days before, but her country immunity has miraculously pulled through and healed her in such little time. Russia has, thankfully, been to preoccupied with the war to breath down their necks.

Israel still hasn't asked about the other countries currently under Russia's control, or about the history of the Baltics or even herself. There are moments, however, when the Baltics act... differently. When they seem less like themselves and more like countries.

She wonders who the full, true Baltics actually are, and if she really wants to meet them. To be honest, Malka is scared of Israel.

Latvia breaks Israel out of her train of thought by whispering. "Lithuania has a forced win. Queen to c7, King has to go to e8, Rook takes a8, the Bishop has to move in the way and after the Queen takes, both moves the King can make lead to Checkmate."

Israel stares at the board in wonder, analysing the line that Latvia had just shared with her. "Oh, I didn't see that..."

No sooner has Latvia says it, Lithuania makes the move. Estonia, after staring at the board for a long moment, calculates out the line. Seeing he has no way to win, he sighs, knocking his King over with a finger. He smiles at Lithuania and holds out a hand. "You win... again. That was amazing."

Lithuania gives a rare smile and shakes Estonia's hand. "You played amazingly too. That maneuver in the middle game with the knights and the center pawn was incredible."

Estonia's smile lingers as he releases Lithuania's hand.

Latvia immediately jumps up. "Will one of you give me a game?"

Lithuania simply yawns, while Estonia shakes his head. "Sorry, Latvia, not this time... Lithuania used all my brainpower."

Israel slips off the table and stands. "I'll play."

Latvia grins. "Great!" He immediately begins to set up the board, lightning-fast.

"Latvia was white against me last game," Lithuania notes. "So Israel gets to play white."

Israel feels a thrill. Playing white is a good thing. Oddly, she knows the game naturally, yet still feels foreign to it. Just like playing the violin; she can do it, having all the knowledge, but the unnerving unnatural feeling lingering.

She sits across from Latvia, Estonia resetting the clock. Estonia smiles at her. "Good luck; Latvia knows all the openings in his book by heart."

Israel nods, catching Latvia's proud smile. Estonia fiddles with the clock some more. "Latvia, which side do you want?"

"My right, please." Latvia, as black, gets to choose. Estonia sets the clock down. "This will be a nice long game, so no stress. Twenty minutes each on the clock. And... start."

Israel, naturally and without thought, picks up d-pawn, her fingers feeling awkward and unused to configuration. She sets it down on d4, two squares forward from it's starting position. After a moment, she remembers the clock, using one trembling finger - remembering just in time to use the hand that touched the piece - to press down the button.

Latvia instantly replies with d-5, putting his black pawn right in front of hers and fluidly moving his hand to strike the clock. He smiles. "I love d4. So many opening possibilities."

Israel doesn't really think about what she's playing. She simply knows. She plays c4, a move which seems ridiculous, but has potential. She's putting her white pawn right up to the left of her other one that's been moved, diagonal to the black pawn, offering her own up.

Latvia grins. "So you're a Queen's Gambit player. This'll be interesting." He muses for a moment, then a grin crosses his face once more. "Let's see if you're positional or tactical. A slow grinder or a hard-and fast-attacker." He accepts the pawn, taking up his own and sweeping the c4 pawn into his hand and striking the clock.

Without qualm, Israel knows her move, her awkward hand picking up her b1 Knight and moving it over to c3, directly underneath the black pawn that just took her own. The move, she realises after playing it, now controls the b5 square, stopping her opponent from protecting his own pawn with another pawn before she can take his c3 pawn back.

Latvia responds quickly and smoothly throughout the rest of the opening, his hand sure and fluid. He plays into a King's Indian, while Israel subconsciously plays into a line known as the Trompowsky, an annoying line for King's Indian players to face. Latvia is confident, knowing how to navigate the opening, but is also clearly surprised that Israel even knows the sequence.

Israel begins to notice a pattern to his movements. He opens up possibilities, offering Israel the choice of where to take the opening. Israel feels a surge of annoyance, mixed with pride. Is he testing her?

Latvia is calm and confident in his play, seemingly always one step ahead. This Latvia is almost unnervingly different from the Latvia Israel knows; quiet, fearful, clumsy and awkward. On a chess board, he makes no mistakes. He does not stutter.

Israel navigates the middle game with a slow, positional approach, closing the center and castling her king the same side as Latvia's. Now out of the opening, Latvia falters, moving slower, less certain of his moves, but still clearly in control with a confidence that belies his apparent age. He's still trying to gauge out Israel's prowess. Israel herself finds that she is rather skilled at taking advantage of positional assets, but only spots clever sequences after it's too late to play them, and fails to stop a couple against herself.

But Israel achieves her goal. A slow, even middle game... until Israel's positional advantage becomes overwhelmingly clear and the tables turn completely, Latvia's army falling to a collection of clever maneuvers and his King to a swift and sudden checkmate.

Latvia stands, an almost shocked expression on his face, holding out his hand. "That was... incredible."

Israel hunches her shoulders, smile shy. She shakes Latvia's hand. "I... uh... didn't mean to..."

Estonia leaps to his feet. "Are you kidding, Israel? That was some of the most incredible positional maneuvering I've seen!"

Lithuania's smile is broad, positively beaming at Israel. "Since us three are all tactical attackers, he's comparing you to Russia there."

Latvia, rather than being sad or downtrodden from his loss, is jumping up and down from excitement. "Russia's play is just _stunning_. He can play all of us to a hard loss just with all-out tactics, and can wipe the floor with any of us as a positional genius on top of that. That's what he's comparing you to!"

Israel, if she was one of those people who could, would've been blushing a furious scarlet at that moment. "I didn't know what I was playing half the time..." But it's not true. Israel was in control the whole time, the game natural to her. Malka must have played, or _something._ Israel can _feel_ the thrill of the win still coursing through her veins, her mind still analysing core sequences that could have occurred and reevaluating blunders. She knew how to play. Within the game she actually felt, for a moment, powerful. Power, like that one time she'd felt the strength soaring through her muscles, saving her from a fate worse than death. Like Latvia, on the board she was a different person. Powerful. In control.

"How about we talk about something else?" Israel smiles. "How about history? I still don't know a lot about the world."

The Baltics all nod and settle in to their respective seats. Another 'history lesson'.

Estonia grins. "What do you want to know?"

The Baltics and Israel spend the rest of the evening talking about history; mostly Israel's questions about the various cultures of the Baltics, them enthusiastically or sometimes shyly answering her questions.

"What about religion?" Israel asks. "I don't really know about much other than my own." The Baltics tell her about Christianity, the religion that overtook hers. They tell her about how there are some countries that have state religions and some that do not. Israel, despite being a religious state, finds this odd. How has mere faith and belief led to such conflict and war? But again, this was Malka's thinking. Her mind is still divided.

"What about a country themselves? What can we do?" Israel licks her lips. "I remember when I had to escape from the camp I became incredibly strong. Can all countries do that?"

There is a sudden silence. Israel looks between the Baltics, but it is a long moment before one answers her question.

"That..." Lithuania's forehead creases. "Is called a country's Berserk form."

The atmosphere in the room immediately clouds over. Israel glances at each of the Baltics in turn. It's rather odd to see the Baltics who were, just a second ago, laughing about their history and cultures and talking happily about a board game, now dark and somber.

"What is a Berserk form?" Israel asks quietly.

Lithuania shares a look with the others. "It's when a country draws upon the strength of a few different factors; their people's faith in their country and their entire military, among others. Their body gains that strength, so they physically have the strength of however many soldiers are inside their military. In... _extreme_ cases, countries gain the strength of every single person part of them. Some countries have so much military power it spills into their natural state. America, for example. He's always been incredibly strong. He's still growing in power."

Estonia looks her over. "That could be the reason you were unconscious for such a long time. Country immunity could heal and save you from those bullets, sure. But it wouldn't have taken two weeks. If you tapped into your Berserk form, that would explain why you needed to rest for so long."

"How can a spirit have a Berserk form?" Israel wondered.

"I did it when I was a spirit, I think," Latvia says. "I'm pretty it draws on belief."

Lithuania nods. "It should; that's what's creating the spirit, after all."

Israel looks at her hands. She remembers the utter madness, the abandon, the lack of care. "When I did it, I felt like... I felt like the world could go to hell before I would care. What... what was that?"

Estonia looks anguished. "It's very... addictive. The sheer power that you feel like that, the inability to care what the rest of the world feels. It can become overpowering."

"It happened to Russia," Latvia says quietly. "He became so addicted to that power. But it's incredibly hard to go into that state. He fell into so many bloody wars just desperately trying to activate his Berserk form, to feel that power again. A lot of the time, he got it. It drove him mad. The addiction and the power."

* * *

**PRESENT DAY**

Israel doesn't join the stream of countries heading for the doors. Instead, she stays behind, waiting so that she can walk home alone. The meeting place is near Belgium's house.

It doesn't take that long for everyone to leave; no country likes being in the presence of the rest of the world.

"Australia and America... it's kind of hard to believe they were both raised by England, the way they act."

Israel almost jumps. Germany, of course, is still here. It's near his house. He doesn't need to leave with the rest; he can take his time.

It's still odd, being around him. Even after all this time.

"They are _quite_ immature." Israel doesn't look at Germany as she speaks.

They are quiet for a moment. Germany sighs. "Israel, you are more tense than usual. Something is wrong, isn't it? Is there a war threat?"

Israel shifts uneasily. She always forgets how Germany easily notices subtleties. "It's nothing." She moves to leave.

Israel suddenly feels a hand on her shoulder. Immediately she tenses up, anticipating cold and pain when there is none. Instead, Germany's hand is warm and gentle. Israel turns, brushing his hand off, to see a genuinely worried face.

"Israel. What is it?"

For some reason, the face of the country she sees now is not the face of the country she saw all those years ago. It's a new person. A different person. And that's when she realises exactly what it is she's afraid of. The eternal nightmare that's been haunting her for too long.

"Tell me your name."

"What?" Germany's brow creases.

"Not the country. The person. Tell me your name."

"I-" Germany is still for a moment, as if struggling to remember. "Ludwig. Ludwig Beilschmidt."

Israel releases a breath. "Now I remember... Thank you." _Beilschmidt. That's what Poland called him. That's who he is._ "That's who you are."

Germany shakes his head. "No. It's who I was."

Israel looks up at him, straight into his unreadable ice blue eyes."Do you remember who I am?"

Germany looks anguished. "... No." He clenches his fist. "I know that's unacceptable. After what I've done."

"My name is Malka Levin." Israel looks down at her hands. "That's who I _am._ I can't loose me. I can't loose myself." Something in Israel becomes desperate.

"What do you mean?"

"I can feel them all the time, Ludwig. The left and the right, the economy, the people, the government, everything. I can't become like all the others; sunk in the personalities of my politics, dictated by my bosses, barely me even when I'm out of their presence." Israel clenches and unclenches her fists. "I can see that sometimes the others are themselves. When they don't have to represent their country. But they just let themselves fall into their country's whims. And I don't want to become that."

"Israel, you-"

"I need to hold on to Malka, Ludwig!" Israel feels angry tears welling in her eyes. She wills them away. "I destroyed someone's life trying to make them realise what I was! So selfishly, just so I'd have someone to talk to, so I could hold on to myself. No one can ever see me! Remember me! Just because I'm a country. It's driving me insane!"

"Israel-"

"Malka is dying, Ludwig!" Israel feels the tears spill over in full force. "How do I save her? How do I do it, Ludwig? How?!"

A moment of silence follows, the echo of Israel's desperate voice ringing in the room. After a while, Germany shakes his head. His expression... it's regretful. "You can't, Israel. That person fades."

Israel is already shaking her head. "No! That's not true! The Baltics, they remember, they can be-"

"No, Israel." Germany shakes his head. "The person is always in you somewhere. But they do fade. Their opinions fade. Their memories fade. As you said, sometimes we come back, times when we can just catch up as friends and forget, for a while, what we are. But the the personality is all gone. You're just... the country without the politics." He gives her a pitying look. "It's easier to just let it happen."

Israel feels Malka surge up within her, wild and angry. No, _herself._ Malka is still her. Israel is the impostor. "No! I swear no matter what I will stay Malka. I don't care what the world says or does! I'll _always_ stay myself!"

"Israel," Germany sighs. "Listen to me. When you're a spirit, when you're new, everything seems different. But that's not how the world works. You have become a country. All spirits go through a lot. When I was a spirit I told Austria that he was an idiot thinking I would ever become like Prussia. I was hotheaded, reckless, always trying to pick a fight. And history will never acknowledge the kindness and hatred that some countries showed me then." He spreads his arms. "Look at me now."

Israel walks away, but she can still hear Germany's voice. "You have a responsibility to your people, and the power to keep your responsibility. I don't want you to throw it away."

* * *

**SOMETIME IN WWII**

_Israel can feel herself running, but she can't feel herself going anywhere. She knows, somehow, that she is trying to escape Russia. Around her there is only pure blackness, not darkness; she herself is there and visible, but everything around her is simply void. She knows she is being chased._

_Suddenly, she catches sight of something else in the black. She tries to run towards it, but she can't seem to get closer. She is falling away from it, no matter how much she wants to come closer..._

_Without warning the thing vanishes and reappears right in front of her. Israel gasps but can't move away._

_The thing is_ _her._

_"You're me," Israel said simply. Her voice, rather than sounding like she was talking underwater like most dreams, is crystal clear._

_"No," the other her said. Her voice was the one that was muddied and unclear. It is hard, emotionless. "You're Israel. I'm Malka. I'm dying. And it's_ your _fault."_

_"What?" Israel can't seem to register the words._

_"I'm going to fade away. And with all the power you'll try to amass you'll never save me." There is a sudden spite in Malka's voice, a sudden broil and turmoil._

_Israel is suddenly the one wrenched forward, her body thrust through Malka's. Israel tries to scream but her body passes through and suddenly she's out of the void. She falling, her body burning, metal bullets in her chest, flung into the cold snow. She's reliving her return to the Soviet Union. The flames still burn around her, shrouding her in hellish heat and light.  
_

_"You'll let me fade away."  
_

Israel's eyes flash open. As reality pours in, the dream fades away, a wisp of thought that Israel can't be bothered to cling to. She's already forgotten.

The room is dark. It must be the middle of the night. A storm howls outside, the wind screaming shrilly despite Israel's room not being on the edge of the house. Being close to bare, the room's blackness feels even more oppressive. The thin blanket and hard mattress are meager protection from the powerful chill permeating the stone house.

Israel has a bad habit of only having dreams when they're spectacularly nightmarish.

She draws her knees in, sitting up with her back against the wall. Her bed is horizontally pushed against the wall opposite the door, but to the far left whereas the door is to the far right. Israel pulls the thin blanket and the hard pillow close to her, trying to create impossible warmth out of nothing but cold.

Israel knows, no matter how tired she is, she won't be able to fall asleep again. Her muscles are sore and tight from the hard bed and the frigid cold. Why so weak? Why so powerless?

Israel suddenly remembers that rush of power she'd felt during the chess game with Latvia the evening before; a pale comparison to the incredible power at the concentration camp. She suddenly longs for it, to have that power once more, simply to exult in it. To escape from Russia _and_ Germany, and-

Israel squeezes her eyes shut and puts her hands over her face, the storm outside shrieking in her ears. No. She can't fall to the addiction. She can't become like Russia.

And yet, the possibility is so tantalising. Seize the power once more and indulge in it, all the while using it to escape from Russia, then Germany-

And then what?! Israel, eyes still squeezed shut, clamps her freezing cold hands on the back of her neck. Even if she can theoretically get the power without fueling the addiction in the first place, what will she even do? Russia can go into his Berserk form too, and his is no doubt more powerful. Even if she can defeat both him _and_ Germany, what after that? Run to one of those superpowers Estonia told her about, America or England or China? Would they even be better than Russia, or somehow, impossibly, even worse?

Israel can feel tears sting her cold cheeks even through the numbness. As she cries, the storm cries with her, wailing and weeping when Israel has no voice.

* * *

**Chapter 15: Power, Part II**

* * *

**PRESENT DAY**

"Israel!"

Israel is jolted rudely out of her train of thought by her boss. Israel bites the inside of her lip, worried.

"Were you paying attention at _all_ during that conversation?!" Her boss fumes.

"Uh..."

Her boss harrumphs and turns back to the Minister of Defense. "We were discussing matters vitally important to your defense in light of the recent terrorist attacks."

"I know that." Israel clenches her fists.

Her boss, however, isn't paying attention. "Honestly, why do we have to get saddled with the twelve-year-old girl?" He's clearly _deep_ in important conversation.

Israel, sitting behind him, secretly fumes. She detests her bosses, and their underestimating her intelligence, and their clear right-wing stance that she can't fight. Malka screams at her to fight back, but she can't. It's all she can do not to punch one of them in the face. Israel grinds her teeth, wishing it were possible to get fired as a country.

Thank goodness the bosses eventually disappear, forgetting Israel herself exists.

At the reminder of Malka, yesterday's world meeting settles on Israel's thoughts like a heavy storm. She can ignore what Germany said. She can hold on to Malka.

Israel forces herself to listen to her boss's boring talk with the Minister of Defense. After some chitchat of nothing in particular, the conversation turns to matters of conscription. Orthodox Jews aren't required to go, and as such, people were becoming slightly discontent.

Israel clenches her jaw. She hates talk of conscription more than anyone would know.

Part of the reason for conscription is what the world and her government knows; to protect her from the various countries/groups that believe she has no right to exist. But the main reason is something far darker and more frightening.

It's to protect her from herself. With such overwhelming military power, some leaks into her natural state. It's just enough to lesson the dire effects of the addiction to the terrible and great power of her Berserk form.

As the conversation of her boss with the Minister takes it's turns, she finds herself swinging from left to right, from red to blue. She's not focused enough to force Malka in to take control. She closes her eyes and tries to put it out of her mind, promising herself a long session of online chess when she gets home. To stop herself from thinking of the conversation or something else, she thinks about a game she was recently in, trying to recall the positions of every piece during the checkmate.

After what feels like hours Israel's boss finally stands and bids the minister farewell. Israel doesn't say a word to her boss, storming out of the room and shifting straight into the neighbourhood. Her house right in front of her, the rest of the world only a street away, actual people on a different plane. Much, much easier.

With a sigh, Israel slumps in, throwing off her IDF uniform's jacket and walking around in a white t-shirt. She can't be bothered to make food, though she's hungry as heck. Dealing with her boss is just too tiring.

Israel manages to drag herself to her computer room and drop into her chair, not even bothering with turning on the light. Around her are three desktop monitors; two iMacs and one PC. A few laptops and tablets litter the floor and desk space, but there is a rhyme and reason. Every country has a hacking space, but only Germany keeps it organised. She's seen Italy's. Hard proof hers isn't the messiest.

Israel opens one of her untraceable laptops and, tired as she is, performs the ridiculously easy system hack into hospital records. She should probably start an initiative to strengthen online security. But meh.

The records load quickly; thank God for fast wifi. Israel scans through quickly, looking for that one name; Dana Shira Shani.

Her eyes find the name. She stops scrolling. Israel's heart leaps in excitement; every single day, she checks. Every single day she gets her hopes up. Every day she's disappointed.

Israel clicks on Dana's name. She closes her eyes and prays; for something, for anything. Slowly, she peaks one eyes open. The page has loaded. She opens the other eye.

And nearly drops the laptop.

* * *

**SOMETIME IN WWII**

Israel is bleary and sleep deprived. Her muscles are stiff and sore. And to make it all worse, Russia's back from negotiations. And just because chance will have it, said negotiations apparently didn't go well.

Breakfast goes terribly. Estonia is also run ragged and sleep deprived; at breakfast (simple war rations) he tells Lithuania, Latvia and Israel the news; Germany just broke the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact. He's invading Russia.

Israel can scarcely form the image in her mind. That ice-eyed country _invading_ Russia. Israel is so tired she didn't even ask how the invasion worked.

The four countries fall silent and eat the rest of their small, cold breakfast in silence. Israel finishes quickly and is about to stand when Russia storms into the room.

"Israel!"

The three Baltics and Israel all jump. Latvia drops his plate with a clatter.

Israel just looks down at her plate, too terrified to look at Russia. The tall, imposing country is so angry it's palpable. The rage seethes off him, permeating the air, all the while his face remaining terrifyingly calm.

"I do not like repeating myself." Russia's voice is deceivingly light. "Israel, come here. _Now_."

Fear rises up in a wave inside Israel, threatening to suffocate her, constricting her chest. She forces herself to walk forward, toward Russia. Russia gestures Israel out the door, and slams it shut behind them.

Israel can feel herself shaking. She can feel the ever-so-familiar fear rising up within her. It never goes away, no matter how many times it comes.

Russia's cold iron grip on Israel's shoulder forces her to move forward through the hallway. Israel grips on to the last tendrils of control that she has; anger. The one protection from fear. But now the fear comes stronger than ever and her anger slips away, thin and weak.

Russia steers Israel down corridors she's never seen before. It clues Israel in into just how big Russia's house is, and just how much history he's hiding here. Russia's grip is so tight Israel is almost afraid he's going to break her collarbone. Finally, Russia stops in front of a door to a room which must be on the other side of the house from the Baltics and the kitchen. Russia pulls the door open and, without warning, shoves Israel inside.

Israel gasps as she is sent sprawling on the hard floor. Russia turns on the lights with a nonchalant hand; the room's floor and walls are completely bare. There is nothing but the two countries. Russia slams the door behind him.

"Do you know why Germany broke the pact, Israel?" Russia says softly, not facing the spirit. "Take a guess."

"I-I-I..." Israel's mouth is moving, but she can't work sound out.

"You remember," Russia says, still in that soft, chilling, menacing tone. "The Molotov-Ribbentrop pact. The one we were discussing at our meeting with Germany. I know Estonia told you about the invasion."

"I..." Israel gulps. "I don't know."

Suddenly, Russia swivels around and grabs Israel by the throat, lifting her from the ground and slamming her into the wall in one swift movement. Israel gasps as pain explodes in her head, her vision sparking. She tries to breathe, but Russia's grip is like metal.

"Because of _you._ " Russia leans closer, the mad fire burning in his eyes. "The public reason is because I, as a socialist state, accept all nations equally, and the Nazi theology disagrees. But the real reason is _you_."

Israel gasps for air, terror a pounding rhythm alongside her heart. Russia slowly squeezes harder, crushing the smaller country's windpipe. Israel can no longer get any air into her lungs. Her chest begins to burn.

The pure rage in Russia's eyes doesn't abate. He tosses her aside like a rag doll. Pain blossoms in Israel's back as she slams into the other wall, crumpling to the floor, her breath coming in short gasps.

"And England and America are just letting it happen." Russia looms over Israel, his voice still so soft. "Do you know _why,_ Israel?"

Israel feels herself curling up, trying to protect herself. Her body, though virtually indestructible, feels so weak and fragile, like a twig about to snap. No matter how pain ricochets through her body, she refuses to let her tears spill over.

"Because they want their enemies to destroy each other. Nazi Germany and the USSR." Russia grabs Israel's throat once more, lifting her up with ease, clean into the air. "And you, _you_ are the reason, the catalyst!"

Israel's hands scrabble weakly at Russia's, furtively trying to get him to relinquish his grip. Russia's eyes harden and his grip tightens, pain flaring in Israel's throat.

"Germany knew who you were since the meeting with Poland." Russia's eyes are both wild and hard at the same time. "Why do you think he put you in the camp? He didn't need to find anything out. All he needed was to kill you, and he'd win. All the Jews would die. All their hope would be lost."

"I- don't-" Israel chokes out, but Russia cuts her off by tightening his grip once more. Israel can no longer breath at all.

"And hope is so valuable. Yet so fragile. Wouldn't you agree, Israel?" Russia's expression is still somehow so calm. "For what are _you_ but a small, idealised piece of hope?"

In a sudden flash of strength, Russia crushes Israel's throat. There is a terrible, horrific _snap._

Israel's body goes stiff.

Russia releases her, letting her drop and crumple to the ground, her neck at an agonising angle.

Such _pain._

Israel's lungs are on fire. Burning, aflame, ablaze. No air. Not enough air. Can't breath. Pain. Pain in her neck. Agony. Sightless eyes. Grey.

She can still feel the echo of the snap. The pain roaring in a flood through her bones, shrieking an operatic solo. She should be dead right now. She can't even move.

It just goes on. On and on and on, never relinquishing its hold. Israel can't stop the tears any longer; they're pouring down her face. The unending pain...

And suddenly Israel can feel the bones _shifting._ The snapped bones stir and move, reforming and solidifying, her crushed windpipe opening. Israel's chest suddenly expands, air, oh-so-sweet air rushing in and giving her life, the sheer taste of it so wonderful.

Her country immunity has saved her once more.

"Quite impressive."

Israel pulls herself up, still gasping for air, limbs shaking. She sees the shadow of Russia pass over her. A horrid shudder of fearful anticipation passes through her.

"I honestly didn't think your immunity would work that fast." He leans down, right over Israel's shaking form. "Much easier for me, then."

Israel is thrown once more into the wall as Russia's powerful kick sends her lightweight form flying. Israel can taste metallic blood in her mouth.

"Why did I even try to take you in? Why?"

Israel closes her eyes, feeling blood slowly seeping from her lips. She has given up.

"Why even try let your people stay inside of me? You are a poison. You bring hatred and dissent and chaos." Russia continues to ramble, his voice still so inexplicably soft. "At least Germany's going to take care of that."

Israel lets her eyes slowly peel open. Her vision is fuzzy. She fixes her eyes on Russia. Through the blood in her mouth, she speaks. "M-monster."

Russia is still. Israel's eyes close and her head falls back against the wall.

"I'm sorry?"

Russia's soft voice is so terrifyingly menacing. Israel feels incredible anger growing and welling up inside her, overtaking the steady thrum of pain and erasing the fear.

"You're a monster." Israel spits out the blood in her mouth, spattering crimson over Russia's boots. "Why do you think your people always end up hating you? Yes, the Baltics told me about Bloody Sunday. They told me about the revolution. You-"

"That's enough." Russia grabs Israel's left forearm with both hands and snaps the bones with a sharp crack, dropping the arm at it's new awkward angle. Israel screams, curling in on her arm, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. But before she closes eyes, she can see Russia's cold smile. "Really, you are so easy to break."

Israel's immunity must be in overdrive. She can feel the wave of pain subsiding, drawing back as her immunity knits the bones back together. Russia's smile becomes almost manic.

Russia grabs Israel by the throat once more, simply throwing her to the center of the room. Israel can't do more than whimper as he approaches, her back sore from the landing.

"Just remember, _Myata_ ; hope dies." Russia's gaze is affixed on the wall, his fists clenched. He's remembering. "It always does. You may have come back from death, but so have I. So has Germany. So have we all. And you'll only go back someday. Except this time you'll go back as a crushed dream."

With that, Russia raises his blood-spattered boot and stamps down on Israel's chest.

There is no air for a scream of pain. There's just the penultimate pain of her rib cage shattering like broken glass, and the paramount pain of her heart bursting inside her chest. The pain reaches it's height, more than Israel would have imagined possible. Israel's nerves can't take any more, and the incredible, horrific, terrible agony slowly fades into a sea of blackness tinged with crimson blood.

* * *

**PRESENT DAY**

Israel is running through the streets, her heightened physique allowing her to continue sprinting when an ordinary person would have been gasping for breath. She's luckily not too far and the run takes about ten minutes overall.

Israel arrives at Dana's street just as she and her family are getting out of their car. Israel pulls back on the turn onto the street, just slightly peeking around the corner. Israel can see Dana get out of the car. She watches as Dana envelopes her teary-eyed mother in a hug.

Dana's memory has returned.

Israel pulls back, leaning against the wall. She closes her eyes, letting the relief come. Dana has remembered. For some reason, this makes everything feel better, as if this one problem's resolution solved everything.

The next day, Israel is waiting on the bench at the shopping centre. After a minute or two of nervous tapping and hoping, Israel sees her. Dana's frizzy brown hair.

Excited, Israel stands and begins making her way through the crowds of people. She reaches Dana within seconds.

"Dana?"

"Huh?" Dana turns around to look at Israel.

There is no recognition in her eyes.

Israel falters.

"Oh, I'm sorry... I thought you were someone I knew."

"Oh, that's okay." Dana smiles.

Israel gives a pained smile back and turns around, trying desperately to stop the tears.

Dana has healed. She'd gotten better. She has her life back. Yet, selfishly, Israel is bitter. Even after it all, Dana still can't remember her.

Even after it all, she's still alone... still a small, idealised peace of hope.

* * *

**SOMETIME IN WWII**

No more pain. Thank God.

Israel's eyes slowly open. The world is fuzzy around her. Just the bare white ceiling and bare white walls. Just cold, grey stone floor. She takes a big, deep breath, beyond relieved that she can. She can feel her heart beating in her chest.

Israel slowly turns her head to the side, eyelids fluttering. When she forces her eyes open again, she's met with a shock.

Around her is a pool of bright crimson blood, seeping out from her sides. Israel, panicked, moves her arm to her sides. Thankfully, they are intact.

"Myata?"

Israel can't focus. His face is a blur to her. But his voice... "Li... Lithuania...?"

His face comes closer. He has knelt down, and she can feel him lifting her up onto his knees. She shies away from his touch, afraid, but he brings her into his arms anyway.

"Oh God, Myata..."

 

* * *

**PRESENT DAY**

The memories of Lithuania are what see Israel through it all. Israel the person, through being Israel the country. The memories confirming that even when their people tear themselves apart or sow dark seeds which spread vines of blackened hate through their souls that they can still recognise it. 

Israel chews her spearmint gum, laughing at herself. She leans back and watches the sun set over Tel Aviv and pretends for a moment that she is like Dana.

Human.


End file.
